


Masks

by TiedyedTrickster



Series: Archetype Masks [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura has issues she needs help with like everyone else, Alternate Universe, Archetypes, Awesome Lance, Complete, Coran is secretly a very responsible adult, Gen, Hunk is everyone's favorite, Hurt/Comfort, I am so sorry Matt, Keith is stoic and we love him, Masks, Pidge is a small fierce thing, Shiro is a folk hero now, Slight Character Study, and I'm okay with this, and everyone in the Castle gets help with their issues in this, archetype masks, basically a series of interconnected one-shots, don't tell the rest of the group - it's a secret, space rebel Matt, the power of comedy, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 34,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10139777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiedyedTrickster/pseuds/TiedyedTrickster
Summary: Everyone has a mask, one that tells the world what character you're destined to play in life, that tells people who you are. Except Lance's mask doesn't match him at all, and it's driving Keith nuts.





	1. Keith

**Author's Note:**

> This one is… a little odd.
> 
> Edit 23/5/2018: This fic is also from back in 2017, shortly after season 2 had been released, and even then I ignored a lot of season 2! So expect old/classic renditions of the characters and just total free-form with Matt.

Everyone had a mask – that was just the way it was. No one was entirely sure where they came from, but by the time you were a teenager, you’d generally found yours, that second face that told the world what role you played. Some people wore theirs openly, on the side of their head or hanging from their hip, a bold declaration of who they were and where they fit in the world. Others kept theirs hidden in cases or mixed in with strings of other masks that made it impossible to tell which was the real one. In any event, you always had your mask.

And that was part of what had made it such a shock to see Shiro that first time – not just the prosthetic arm, but the fact that his mask was nowhere to be seen. It had sent a chill up Keith’s spine to see that empty place at Shiro’s hip where that second face, the one that denoted him a Guardian with its firm colours and calm, certain expression, should have been. It had taken an effort not to grab for his own mask where it rested, tucked safe in his jacket-

And that moment of hesitation had been all it took for the other three to show up. The small boy in green with his carry-bag, the larger teen with his Caregiver mask strapped to one shoulder, and the idiot in blue with his Hero mask tied like he’d just pushed it to the side of his face, loud and obnoxious and insisting he was Keith’s rival. Utterly surreal.

Nowhere near as surreal as meeting Coran and Allura, though. As finding out about whole races who went without masks their whole lives, who never had that nudge in knowing who they were. Even if you didn’t understand it at first, at least you had it. Keith himself had rankled a bit when he first found his, at the odd combination of red and purple the Explorer was painted in, with accents of yellow and blue, green and black and white. It’s bright and gaudy, and he never understood how it fit him until he learned about the lions and Voltron. Then most of it falls into place, the harder lines of voyage instead of the gentler strokes of inquisitiveness… it all slowly begins to fit into place (all except that splash of purple that surrounds one eye, with the thin line of yellow inside it right around the eye hole (and then it makes more sense than he ever wanted it to)).

Slowly he gets to know the rest of these people he’s stuck with for now. Hunk, his mask a warm sunrise of colour and compassion flecked with gold, the quiet, unwavering strength that’s visible even when the mask isn’t. Pidge, who’s Fox is painted in metallics, giving the impression more of machine than creature, clever, calculating, and never quite what you expect him- expect _her_ – to be (their tiny shape-shifter). Shiro, who he already knew, respected, and who seems lost with his bare hip and metal arm, though he tries so hard to be strong for the rest of them. And Lance…

Lance is just obnoxious, and Keith is honestly not sure why the guy bugs him so much. Maybe it’s the way he acts so smug about his Hero mask, wearing it prominently on the side of his head, fastidiously cleaning it, adjusting the tilt whenever he’s near a reflective surface, the strident red and black and white a blaring contrast with the rest of his outfit. And maybe that’s it what bugs him so much – Lance’s mask doesn’t fit him, doesn’t look like _him_. Even when he didn’t understand it, Keith’s mask has always _fit_ , has always brought that calm surge of _‘this is me’_ the rare times he slips it on to wear both his faces at once. And it’s the same with all the others – Pidge’s eyes gleam on the odd occasion she dons the Fox to increase her focus and it slides into place so smoothly you’d almost forget it wasn’t the face she was born with. Hunk’s leaves his mouth exposed, and the one time he’s worn it around Keith… again, it was easy to forget the mask was there at all, it was so a part of him. That’s how it was with Shi- how it’s been with everyone he’s ever seen wearing theirs. It’s a part of you, like wearing your soul on your face.

The only explanation Keith can come up with is that it’s either not Lance’s real mask, or the idiot blue paladin is acting… other than he is supposed to be, for whatever reason. And it can’t be the first, because Lance only _has_ the one mask with him and he doesn’t have that… broken feel that Shiro does, so it can’t be that. Which leaves the only explanation that Lance has some _amazingly_ hidden depths that he’s not sharing for some reason, which pisses Keith off, because they’re in a war, dammit, they should all be bringing everything they have to the table, not- not making stupid jokes or flirting with everything that moves! It makes no _sense_!

It makes no sense right up until a run-in with some Galra troops while they’re stopped for supplies. It’s Keith, Lance, and Shiro, on a mission to get more food while Hunk and Pidge look for spare parts and interesting gizmos, and, more importantly, they’re trying to lay low – no armor, nothing to openly link them to Voltron, and even Lance has his mask tucked away for once, since word of it seems to have gotten out (that’s what he gets for wearing it so prominently all the time). Except there’s no way out of this one without blowing their cover with the number of troops there are, not without people getting hurt with the number of civilians there are-

Keith is reaching for his bayard, already calculating how he’ll attack, moving to flank Shiro as the black paladin’s stance also shifts into something more aggressive, when Lance, who has been quietly watching, puts a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Uh, guys? Chill. I got this.”

Keith turns, pissed, ready to explain in very cutting terms exactly why this is not the time for Lance’s bravado, and instead slaps a hand over his mouth because Lance has just taken his mask out and _pulled in two, oh god, why would you even DO that_?!?

Except… Lance does not seem to be displaying any signs of discomfort as he gently tugs a thin layer of white out from under the bold face he’s always flaunted and… it’s a second mask, the simplest Keith has ever seen, smiling white, with two curves for eyes and a third for a mouth (odd, you don’t see many full-face masks). He nonchalantly slips it on even as he puts the Hero mask in Shiro’s shocked hands. “Hold this for me, will ya? Thanks! Now,” he turns, winks at them through one eye hole, an animation to him Keith has never seen before, “Lance get this party started!” He flings his arms wide-

-and collides with a stall of some sort of fruit Keith’s unfamiliar with, going down in a flail of limbs as the fruit goes _everywhere_ , rolling, getting underfoot, somehow getting even slipperier when it’s squashed, and Lance is sitting up and spluttering and apologizing and trying to help but somehow just making everything even _worse_ …

And it just… spreads. Across the entire market place. A sea of seemingly unintentional chaos, like some sort of bizarre slapstick that just grows and swells until an hour and a half later all five paladins are sitting in the green lion, stained with mud and fruit juice and oil, supplies acquired and expressions shell-shocked as Pidge takes them back to the castle.

“Welp,” Lance says comfortably, polishing some mud off the plain white mask before tying it on the side of his head, where it grins at them, “That went well.”

He explains to them once they’re back at the castle, heading towards the next call for help. Lance’s mask, his _real_ mask, is one of the very old ones, the kind you don’t see much of any more – Comedy. Keith remembers reading about masks like that in school vaguely, old, strong, the kind that will wear you instead of the other way around if you aren’t careful, they have so much history behind them. And suddenly it makes sense why Lance hid it, too – no one really takes the humourous masks very seriously. They’re entertainers, clowns, with no real place in more serious venues, especially places like the garrison. But the state Lance left that market place in with a few minutes of work… yes, half the people had been laughing, but the Galra had been completely wrong-footed, unable to act against what seemed to be nothing more than a string of oddly humourous bad luck, and the resulting chaos had made it easy to slip away to collect Pidge and Hunk, even as the chaos streamed after them, not stopping until Lance had slipped his mask to the side again.

“No one expects comedy to be powerful,” Lance says with a shrug, “But it is. People underestimate me for it, but, eh, joke’s on them, right? Comedy and tragedy – you either gotta laugh or start screaming.”

“Suits you better than that fake one you were wearing over it,” Shiro says with a faint smile, “Speaking of which-”

Keith sees the faint tremble in Shiro’s hand as he reaches for the fake Hero mask, where it had slipped so neatly into the empty hooks that still hang on his belt, waiting for a weight that will never be there again. Lance must notice it, too, because his smile dims further as he goes to accept it, only he flinches back before his hand ever meets the edge. “Ew, Shiro, what did you _do_ to it?”

A blink and Keith sees what he meant. Lance has kept this mask in spotless condition the entire time they’ve been paladins, the colours crisp and clear, vivid black and red and white. Now, though… the mixture of alien fruit juice and mud seems to have affected the pigments, feathering the bold lines into something gentler, blurring the colours to something more orange and grey and, as Shiro does his best to wipe it off with a cloth Hunk hands him…familiar.

“Shiro…” Keith’s voice comes out strangled. It’s not the same as before, wrong colours, different lines, a more weathered face than the one Keith remembers, with fire in its eyes and a dark streak over the bridge of the nose.

“Oh.” Lance catches on a moment later as Shiro stares at the mask – the _Guardian_ mask. “I guess it’s yours now. Huh,” he blinks, then grins, “I guess this time the joke’s on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comedy is very powerful – it defines and undermines fear, revels in violence, often requires a certain level of intellect to be understood. Along with Tragedy, it’s one of the two oldest genres in the world, and both are of equal importance. Laughter is strange and sacred and very, very important, for all that it often gets dismissed as frivolous in Western society.
> 
> The idea for this came from an image in my head of Lance holding up the classic Comedy mask of theatre and peeking from behind it at the viewer with a mischievous grin.  
> Oh my gods, Nuro-chan did a WONDERFUL picture of this, go take a look here: [Lance and his mask](http://www.nuro-does-art.tumblr.com/post/158071240488/)
> 
> Masks and the concepts contained within, including archetype masks, (c) Tie-dyed Trickster 2017  
> All Voltron characters and settings (c) their respective owners


	2. Matt

He remembers. Sometimes it feels that this is all he is, a memory clinging to dusty brown curls and eyes that don’t quite know if his captors are purple or violet. He used to be good with colours, back when his eyes were his own, before he received this ‘gift’ from the druids. He knows he was. He remembers. Just as he knows that his mother was a Lion and his father a Sage, that his sister was a Fox and he himself a Scholar. He remembers the way his glasses used to sit on his nose, and the way they sat on his mask so perfectly as to look like a single unit, how people always gasped at first when they saw him separate the two, and how he always selected frames that would go well with the light, curious green, with the pale star guiding his thoughts…

…he remembers the druids taking it from him. He remembers the sick feeling of their hands all over it, the dangerous expression of the white-haired witch as she lifted it-

The memory ends there, and his mask appears no more from this point onward. He does not search for this memory. He does not want to know. Not when he saw Shiro scream. Not when he saw them try and twist a Guardian into the most distorted version of a Champion that may ever have existed. Not when he saw his friend forced to fight for his life with knees still shaking from his newly-empty hip.

It’s been… a long time since then. He doesn’t know how long, but he remembers the whispers, from one cell to the next. They flitted through the shadows with tiny trills of _‘missing, escaped, dead, alive, gone gone gone…’_ and he rubs the scar on his leg that is an eternal reminder, a memory in his skin of the last act of a missing mask before the universe grabbed hold and began to _twist_. The others murmur of bloodlust; he knows better. He remembers the time it bought him, before the druids came, before he was found useful. It’s only logical – never use your best materials for your first attempt. Everyone knows that.

He remembers the sensation of his two flesh and blood hands pressing against each other, but only barely.

His father vanished long ago, back when he had eyes to understand and not just see, sent somewhere away from him, and from Shiro. The Sage mask of quicksilver and sky blue had still hung around the man’s neck, eyebrows raised in curiosity, the only one eager to see what was coming next. It is a foolish dream, but he hopes that it hangs there still; that one of them is still whole. Or, to be more accurate, is still as they were.

Shiro is broken and vanished, swallowed by blood and stars and shadowy whispers. His father is whole and vanished, spirited away to ‘elsewhere’ and gone. He sits between them, woven of memories and metal and flesh, neither one nor the other, not broken nor whole. This is good. This is as it should be.

The Guardian was torn asunder, the Sage stolen away, and the Scholar cannot survive on his own – he has a feeling the perhaps purple perhaps violet captors are counting on this. They see the smallest, the weakest, the one that will bend and fall most easily.

They are fools. His power never lay in his hands or feet or eyes – no, it was the force behind his face, his _mind_ that they should have feared. The Guardian gave him time – the greatest gift to a Scholar, for with time comes understanding, and his sister is not the only one with steel in her soul, nor the knowledge of how to temper it. Cut away the unnecessary, let the useless fall to the wayside but pretend these things are so, so precious as they slip through your fingers, precious enough to sate the cruel hunger of his tormentors, and all the while gather the true pieces closer and closer still, fit them together and weave them tight. Lion’s power, Fox’s wit, Sage’s wisdom, Guardian’s love, they weave together in the Scholar to form Purpose, and then Cause, even as his own form wavers and shifts as he becomes what he must to survive.

He remembers the stories, and he remembers the patterns, learned in childhood, engrained by life, _‘here is the meaning of this colour, that line, half versus domino versus full face, pattern and shape and creature.’_ He traces them in dirt and grease and blood, on the ground, on the walls, because you never use your best materials for your first attempt. Everyone knows that. He learns the secrets of no freedom, one ear to the whispering shadows, shreds of the Scholar still clutched precious in his soul, listening for something he doesn’t know, not quite other enough to understand yet. The Guardian was broken, the Sage taken, but the Scholar is becoming something new, and he is the one doing the forging, for all another holds the hammer. Eyes as yellow as his mother’s mask, a hand as metallic as his sister’s, they bind him closer to where he comes from, reminders when the memories threaten to wriggle free of his hold in the druids’ clutches.

They think him broken, think him mad, his scrawlings on his cell a sign of his shattered mind, and he makes no move to correct them. Indeed, he is not sure they are wrong, when he has lost so many pieces, when his hope hinges on a plan that is the least scientific thing in his logical life, but he has no time for science now, and no room for doubts so he drops them to the floor amidst drops of blood…

And through the shadows, through the whispers and the patience and the semblance of madness, he hears it, the word he has been waiting for, that he still does not entirely understand but which he recognizes as the spark he requires. _‘Voltron.’_

It comes in a moment of silence, a moment of still, and in that moment he moves, flings the rough cloth from his shoulders and tears it along lines he has weakened and prepared, paints lines he has traced so often that they sometimes appear on the floor while he sleeps, then slips the result on with a prayer to whatever it is that usually is the one to create these.

The mask slides on with a whisper and all the loose pieces jumble then **click** in a swelling knowledge of _‘this is me,’_ and Scholar turns to Rebel in the blink of an eye. The guard is not expecting resistance, not after so long, and mercy has little meaning in the belly of a Galra ship. His arm might not have any fancy tricks, but it’s still strong, sturdy enough to smash open a lock, and rebellion has always been contagious. The numbers at his back grow as he rises through the decks, a fire in his soul to burn the Galra Empire to the ground.

Somehow they make it, somehow they _survive_ and are left in awe that this small vessel they were being carried on is under no power but their own. And in the silence, they turn to him, one by one, turning to the small, strange figure who has done the impossible.

“Holt,” he says when they ask his name, “Matthew Holt. And I’m going to take back everything the Galra have stolen from me and more. WHO’S WITH ME?”

The last is said in a roar to do his mother proud, and it is met with one of equal power.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

“Stand down.”

He freezes at the voice in a way he hasn’t since he first donned his new mask, blade poised over the Galra before him.

“I said _stand down_ ,” the voice repeats, full of power, “He’s a spy for us, he’s one of our allies!”

He shouldn’t- he _knows_ he shouldn’t, knows the way the druids can play with a person’s mind, but this is a voice they never found, and he turns, slowly, so slowly…

The green paladin of Voltron stands before him, small and terrible, glowing green weapon out and ready to strike if he doesn’t listen…

And he remembers. He remembers that tilt of the chin, the slight snarl of righteous anger, the eyes flashing as if daring the world to underestimate her, always getting into things you’d never expect, their family’s tiny shape-shifter… “Katie?”

She flinches hard at the name, eyes growing even wider with shock. “Who-?”

“I remembered you,” he says, because it feels important that she know this right off the bat, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but I remembered anyway.”

“ _Matt_!”

He’s barely got his mask up to his forehead before she tackles him, sending them tumbling to the ground as she yells and sobs and does her level best to punch him in the kidneys from the front for vanishing, and he laughs even as another figure comes running up, dressed like her but black instead of green, because this, he remembers this-

-and, more importantly, they remember _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …
> 
> Soooo, guess who isn’t allowed to play with Matt anymore? Dear gods, I don’t know what I was expecting when I started writing, but it wasn’t this… Anyway, this is the result of reading a few ‘badass rebel Matt’ theories and going ‘hey, ‘rebel’ is an archetype!’
> 
> I have no idea if there will be more of these. I didn’t mean to write this one…


	3. Lance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before the group encounters Matt.

Lance looks at the container of… mask stuff Coran has just handed him. “No way – it’s really the same thing masks are made of?”

“As far as the Castle can tell, within a thousandth of a percent of accuracy,” Coran confirms, already tidying up the area around the replicator, the model of efficiency, “Never seen anything like it, but it’s a match – could be a compound native strictly to Earth.”

“Maybe,” Lance allows looking at the fine, powdery white stuff, “Would you be able to make more of it? There’s not a lot here.”

The Altean frowns, considering, “Technically, yes, since the computer has the recipe for it now, but practically speaking it’s got some pretty fancy materials in it. We used up the last of the unobtanium making that lot, and it was hard to get even before the Galra were running everything!”

“Mmm,” Lance nods, glances at Coran, does a quick scan of the room, then slides his mask over his face and takes a calculated step, “Better make sure nothing happens to it, then – though it’d be pretty funny if-”

He never finishes the sentence. Mostly because at that moment Coran turns and, not realizing until far too late that Lance has moved directly into his blind spot, crashes into him full tilt, and the two of them are pretty close in the height department, but Lance is seventeen and still growing, whereas Coran is both fully grown and an adept warrior. In an _amazing_ flail of limbs, Lance goes down hard, catching an elbow and a foot on two separate cables, yanking on the replicator and causing worrisome levels of sparking and smoke, the container of mask stuff flying out of his hands and straight into one of the vents where it shatters _just_ in time for the room’s filtration system to kick in full tilt, sucking out all the potentially harmful fumes and every single grain of mask stuff. By the time Coran has staggered up, wheezing due to the fact that his solar plexus had made very firm contact with Lance’s knee on the way down, the computers are rebooting, the newly-input data on masks gone up in smoke, and Lance’s mask is on the side of his head like it never moved.

When it comes to comedy, it’s all about timing. It had been nerve-wracking enough to risk having that formula in the first place, because… being able to fabricate masks on a whim? Um, _ew_?!? But at the same time… they’re in a war, and, even now, masks still get lost or broken in battle sometimes. Back on Earth this is slightly less of a problem – there’s always the potential to find a new one and ways to mend one that’s been broken, but here in space…? No so likely. And with the way Shiro had been before he found his new mask by accident… it makes Lance sick to think of any of them going through that, especially the idea of Shiro going through it _twice_ and this time with no spare on hand.

And that’s when it came to him. Wouldn’t it be funny if there were a way to make it so masks could form here in the Castle as well? That would be hilarious, especially since science _still_ isn’t sure how they form in the first place. He has no idea if this will work – comedy can be surprisingly tricky to work with at times, especially if you’re going for a really specific outcome – but he’s done his best. Now only time will tell if the joke’s on him or the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many people have pointed out, if you sit down and look, Lance is actually pretty good at coming up with solid plans. Do they all work? No, but he has a good head on his shoulders, and we all know he’s a worrier. Will this work? Dunno, haven’t decided yet. But Lance wanted to at least try, so I decided to let him. Coran’s never gonna get a chance to re-enter that data on masks, though, funnily enough. ;)
> 
> Fun fact - Lance is actually the most knowledgeable of the group on the subject of masks, their meanings, and their uses.


	4. The Champion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set prior to Matt meeting up with the Voltron crew.

“He was a being from another world, a strange world, one we do not know, of a species not meant for war – small, fragile, no fangs, no claws, skin soft as a dentora’s whisker’s, half blind, half deaf. He was noted by the others bound for the ring that day, those sent to die, he and the other, smaller of his kind. They were seen and they were noted and they were understood to be of the walking dead, sacrifices sent to paint bright the darkened ring with their blood, that the following fights might be more exciting. And there was some small sorrow in this knowledge, but it was only small – in a universe half-drowned with tears, there is no room for more shed over those already dead.

“He who was to die second did not know this, however, for he was a being from another world, a strange world, and he knew little of life beyond it. And he saw the fear in he who was to die first, saw it and would not stand for it, though they both shook as though something inside was broken. He stole the place of he who was to die first, with a blade from the guards and a slice along his fellow’s leg, a demand to go first and a claimed thirst for blood. He walked into the ring.

“And he broke fate. Broke it and stepped beyond it. For he was to have died second, but the first to die lived still, and so he who was to have died second could not follow the path set before him. He had no choice but to live.”

“He was a soft being,” another voice picked up the tale as the first ceased, “Small, fragile, no fangs, no claws, skin soft as a dentora’s whisker, half blind, half deaf. But he fought as if he did not know this. Former victors of the ring, the Empire threw at him, and still he lived. Vicious beasts whose calls mean death, they threw at him, and still he lived. Criminals of war whose names are forgotten in the hopes their kind will never be seen again, they threw at him, and still he lived. He lived for he could not die.

“The arena was his home, and he stalked it, fierce as any beast, dangerous as any being. The crowds screamed their approval of him, and he accepted it, his rightful due. The prisoners that were thrown to him he threw back, demanding a fight worth his time with a sneer. They took his blade, claiming it made his battles too easy, too dull, and he laughed in their faces and lived, for he had no choice but to live.”

“He was a quiet being,” a third speaker stepped in, “Small, fragile, no claws, no fangs, skin soft as a dentora’s whisker, half blind, half deaf. Outside the arena he spoke to less than few, and never to he who was to die first, though in passing they saw each other often. It was a silence of fear. Of ‘all that I love is taken from me.’ A silence that is well known in the prisoners’ cells, and that the Empire does not speak. But eyes say more than mouths, and the eyes of he who was to die second always sought he who was to die first before any other.

“He killed three guards the day he who was to die first was not there. He screamed like a bezerking glornat, and he killed them, and when it became clear he would not escape, he tried to kill himself. But, though he did not know it, he who was to die first was still alive, merely taken by the druids for their foul purposes, and so he had no choice but to live, for he was to die second, and he could not die before the other.”

“He was the favoured of the arena,” the first speaker took up the thread again, “And they called him its Champion, gave him gifts to improve his strength, to turn his head to their side. All but one he refused, and that one he had no choice but to accept, for he was not given one. The Empire was slowly coming to realize that they had snared something dangerous, something valuable, and they sought to turn it from something of mere entertainment to another weapon in their arsenal.”

“But they were too late,” the second speaker slipped in, “Too long did they toy with he who was to die second, too late did they realize he was not theirs, never theirs…

“He was ours.”

“He was small,” the third speaker agreed, “Fragile, no claws, no fangs, skin soft as a dentora’s whisker, half blind, half deaf. But he would not die. He would not break. He would not be held. And when they tried to force more gifts upon him, he snapped his chains, left his captors dead, and walked into the shadows to hunt them from the places between the stars. He does not rest and he does not cease his hunt, and the Empire knows him and they fear him, and he is ours. And we? We are large. And we are strong.”

“We have claws.”

“We have fangs.”

“Our hides are tough.”

“Our eyes are keen.”

“Our ears are sharp.”

“No longer will we suffer to be chained,” the first speaker’s voice rises in volume, “No more will we allow ourselves to be broken! We follow him!”

All three chorused the final words, “OUR CHAMPION!”

The leader of the band cheers with the rest of the camp at the tale’s end before making his way over to the new group of rebels they have just encountered, who had not heard the story. He doesn’t know if he believes it himself, not entirely – it sounds too outlandish to be real. But it’s a good one, for all that, good for morale, inspires hope and such, and he offers a smile to the short being who is the group’s leader, only to frown at the look of bemusement he and many of his followers are wearing. “Is there some joke I am unaware of that you wish to share? I assure you, odd though the story is, the Champion is quiet real.”

“Oh I know he is,” the young being smiles at him, his eyes burning yellow behind the cloth mask he wears for some unknowable reason, “And the face he’d make if he heard it would be _amazing_.”

“I- what?” the leader frowns, peers more closely, “What did you say your name was again?”

“Matthew Holt,” the young man says easily, pulling up one pants leg to expose a long scar on his calf, “But I think you would know me better as ‘he who was to die first.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voltron may be a legend, but there have to have been prisoners who escaped before the ones the paladins freed, and… well, technically you can tell me that Shiro’s hasn’t inadvertently turned into some sort of folk hero among certain groups, but I’m not going to believe you.


	5. Shiro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning: this segment contains panic attacks and Shiro confronting a few of his issues, but he doesn’t have to do it alone.

The first time he sees Matt again, sprawled on the ground and laughing under Pidge to the utter confusion of the Blade of Marmora agent in front of them, Shiro’s knees go weak with relief, but not so weak as to be unable to carry him over to the two siblings.

The next minute they really _do_ give out, because Matt has just sat up and looked at him, looked at him with _yellow eyes_ and the whole corridor lurches so suddenly that Shiro barely catches himself as he goes down, catches himself with his right hand, _‘the strongest part of you, embrace it-’_

-then another pair of hands creep slowly into his vision, small, pinkish-brown, human. They stay there, resting on the floor in front of him, so completely unlike any of the images or voices running through his head that a different voice is able to register, soft and firm.

“-shi, left hand to left hip, you are safe, you are Shirogane Takashi, left hand to left hip, you are safe, you are Shirogane Takashi…”

It’s familiar, a soothing rhythm repeated over and over until he is able to follow the instructions and moves his left hand to his left hip, feels the container there, undoes the clasp and slides his hand in to where his mask rests, safe, grounding. His mask is never present in his hallucinations or night terrors, it’s always the first thing to go. There’s a strong urge to pull it out and look at it, visually reaffirm that, in spite of all he’s been through, he’s still a Guardian, but he resists because- because- they’re on a mission, that’s right, they got a call from the Blade, word about another group of rebels that have exploded into the battle against the Galra relatively recently, they were going to team up with some members from the Blade to try and make contact, and then-

Matt.

It’s hard not to flinch at the sight of Matt when he looks up again, at the metal arm, the glowing, solid yellow eyes, the ragged mask he should never have had to wear. He looks more than half like something out of Shiro’s nightmares, the ones that sometimes follow him into the daylight.

It’s easy to see Matt does not share his reservations, however, not when his face lights up even brighter than his new eyes as Shiro looks at him. There is delight there, and recognition, “You really did make it out- I heard the whispers, but I never got anything solid!” he beams.

“I- Matt?”

“Touching as this is,” the Blade member interrupts, “Could we continue it somewhere else? Perhaps a more discrete location than the hallway of one of the Empire’s ships?”

Matt had apparently forgotten the other being’s presence there, and they have a hard time convincing him that he’s an ally. They succeed, but the whole process makes Shiro’s chest ache with memories of how trusting his friend once was.

 

The next time he sees Matt, it’s a few days later, and the reason it’s been so long is entirely Shiro’s fault, and he hates himself for it, hates the way his throat closes at the glimpse of yellow eyes in a human face, the guilt that rises at each sight of that prosthetic, so similar to his own, the sickening twist of fear and failure. He failed in his duty to protect Matt and Dr. Holt, and now Matt not only looks like his nightmares, he’s had to live through them to a certain extent as well. His friend, who was so comfortable in who and what he was, and who has now become something utterly other, while Shiro has been able to reclaim what he once was.

On his hip, the new mask hangs like lead, and when he takes it out to look at it the burning eyes seem to glare at him in accusation. Maybe it’s not really his after all – he hasn’t tried it on since he received it, merely having it was enough, but now he’s afraid to. Lance isn’t the only one who knows a thing or two about comedy, after all – it can be a vicious force, and while the listeners and onlookers laugh, it’s rarely comfortable for those who are the subject of the joke. And this… this would be a powerfully dark joke, for the universe to trick him into thinking he could do what he’s done and still claim to be a Guardian. Half of him is tempted to tear the thing up, even if it turns out to be real, because he doesn’t deserve this – if anyone should be getting a second chance, it’s Matt, not him. Not _the Champion_ …

Hunk is the one who finds him, fighting gladiators in the training room and trying to lose himself in the process. It’s almost always Hunk or Keith who seem to find him in these states – it is Keith’s nature to seek, and Hunk’s to care. The yellow paladin looks at him quietly for a moment from where he’s just shut the room down and locked the controls so Shiro can’t try to override and restart it with vocal commands. Then he slowly, almost gently, removes his mask from the arm it rides on, and slips it on, the warm colours and sprinkle of gold at home on his face as he walks to where Shiro stands, tense and trembling, eyes never once falling to the once-again naked hip, a hand reaching out to place itself on Shiro’s shoulder slowly enough that there’s not a single moment that Shiro couldn’t step back or knock it away.

The hand finds its place on his shoulder, as warm and welcome as the sunrise of Hunk’s mask. “Talk to me, man.”

And Shiro does. It spills out in a torrent of words, jagged and sharp as broken glass. The night terrors, the flashbacks, the details he’s only ever hinted at when he spoke of them before, and the sickening fears he’s barely even spoken to himself of. The imagined blood that fills the empty portions of the year he can barely remember, his nightmare doppelganger with Galra-yellow eyes and loyalty only to the Empire and power, the Guardian mask that sits in his room, untouched, because he’s too weak to carry through with the actions he should, the way he’s failed everyone who relied on him and probably always will…

They’re sitting on the ground by the time the words stop and he’s crying, leaning on Hunk, solid and warm as sun-heated stone, an arm around his shoulders holding him steady as the last jagged-sharp word tumbles from his lips to shatter on the floor. For a moment, there is no sound but Shiro’s own ragged breathing. Then, at somehow exactly the right moment, Hunk speaks.

“I’m pretty sure, if you weren’t a Guardian anymore, you wouldn’t be beating yourself up about this so much.” He flashes Shiro a friendly grin, “Unless you shifted into a Caregiver or something, but, speaking as a Caregiver whose family has a long history of Caregivers? If that were true, you’d have wrapped one of us in a blanket by now – it’s instinctive, you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Shiro chokes a laugh at this, and something in his chest shifts a bit, leaving it a bit easier to breathe, the glass-shard words somehow more manageable now that they are on the ground, where he can choose how to touch them, lift them by edges that won’t make him bleed. “I don’t- I don’t know how to make them stop,” he confesses, wiping at his face with one hand, “The nightmares, the fears, any of it.”

“We’ll help,” Hunk promises, “All of us. Working together’s what Voltron’s all about, right?”

This laugh comes easier and lets Shiro scrub some of the salty tear tracks from his face when it does. “Yeah, you’re right – I think I forgot that. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Any time,” Hunk grins, then switches to full-on mother hen mode too fast for Shiro to follow, even as he puts his mask back on his arm, “Now, you’re coming to the kitchen with me and drinking a cup of water and eating something salty – dehydration’s not something to mess around with when you’re not feeling great. Or any time else, actually, though you wouldn’t know it the way Lance acts, you’d think the one with the water-based lion would be better about that-”

Shiro stands and allows Hunk to herd him to the kitchen, good-natured complaints about their friends lining their footsteps.

 

Matt is in the kitchen when they get there, sitting on the counter, right next to Pidge and Lance, and Hunk lets out a sound of pain at the sight of them. “What? No, no no no, I just got them to _stop_ doing that, this is a _food preparation area,_ it’s _unsanitary_ -!”

Pidge manages to be standing over by one of the larders and looking like she’s never been anywhere near the counter, let alone sitting on it, that you would think such a thing of her, how could you, and Lance takes another bite of his food goo and banters right up until Hunk picks him up and drops him bodily on the floor. Thorough it all Matt laughs and watches and doesn’t move an inch, going so far as to raise an eyebrow at Hunk when the yellow paladin turns to him.

“I’m sitting on a towel,” he says, gesturing at the cloth beneath him with a smirk far too similar to his sister’s, “It’s clean.”

“That is- _not_ \- the point-!” Hunk is making strangled sounds of protest but also holding back from physically touching the man in front of him, obviously a bit uncertain of whether it’s okay to touch him or not.

And, at the doorway, still feeling raw from his talk with Hunk and not quiet able to enter the kitchen’s chaos, Shiro watches, standing far enough back that he’s somewhat in the shadows and not immediately obvious. At least, he thinks he’s not until he realizes that the little random head turns in the direction of the doorway on Matt’s part aren’t random at all. It’s hard to tell, now that his pupils are no longer visible (do Galran eyes even have pupils?), but Matt keeps looking at him, quietly, subtly.

They never covered situations like this in the Garrison – obviously not the potential ramifications of alien abduction, but also not what to do when one of your friends has been taken prisoner and you couldn’t stop it, or how to deal with the fact that his pulse speeds up because Matt’s new eyes make him think of his night terrors, or much of anything about this situation-

But the next look Matt shoots him is accompanied by a hesitant smile, a tiny wave, and that- Shiro can manage that, can let the corners of his mouth tilt up slightly and raise his own hand in quiet greeting, and the eyes might be strange, but the relieved expression surrounding them that this gesture brings is familiar. Maybe they can’t talk yet, experiences and fears both shared and separate keeping them apart, but Matt is going to be traveling with them now, their on-board expert on how to get in touch with the various rebel factions scattered across the galaxy, and this?

This is a good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …this was a one-shot meant to be primarily about Lance being awesome, why are there five chapters? And how did Shiro end up getting so much screen time?! And what is Matt doing here?!? (rubs forehead) And why do I get the feeling that I’m going to be writing more about this situation with Matt and everyone…?
> 
> While I haven’t had experiences on par with Matt or Shiro’s, I have been through some very rough patches in my life and also been the unfortunate victim of several extremely vicious panic attacks (only a handful, but enough that I’ve got a very clear idea of just how bad or debilitating they can be), and I tend to draw on personal experiences for things like this, if only because I know at least one person definitively reacts like this in these situations - me.
> 
> That said, I did take a few liberties with Shiro here – personally, I need physical contact with another sentient being when I’m this bad, but I know some people need the exact opposite of that in these situations and I felt that felt more appropriate for Shiro. I also think each member of the team says different things to him when they’re trying to help him snap out of it. The talking things out with someone else bit is also something I do if my thoughts start turning into a self-destructive or fear-inducing cycle.
> 
> Also, we see aliens other than the Galra with yellow eyes – a prime example would be Shay and her family – so I’m gonna guess that solid-coloured eyes aren’t particularly abnormal in the galactic community. Seeing himself with solid yellow eyes, however, is one of the prominent images in Shiro’s night terrors, from what we’ve seen, and he didn’t have an attack with he was with the Blades of Marmora, so I figure the real trigger would be seeing himself or humans with eyes like this. I can’t remember if I factored this in or not when I was writing Matt’s intro chapter (I’d been up for about sixteen hours, things were a tad dream-like and the details of the writing process are vague), but, um. Sorry, Shiro.
> 
> Since people have expressed curiosity about them, the masks in general are based, very roughly, on concepts from both the Commedia dell'Arte from Italy and Kabuki from Japan. As a result, they’re not based on any one culture, though, for example, Hunk’s mask having designs from Samoan culture would be completely within the bounds of possibility. What do they look like in general beyond Lance’s mask? I don’t exactly know, but I’d love to see or hear about your interpretations! What do the masks do, exactly? I’ll leave the exact details of that up to you as well, though there is something at least a touch magical about them. ;) 
> 
> Lastly, bit of personal trivia, but, in my head at least, Hunk’s mask is the most beautiful of all the Paladins’, and has been since the very first chapter.


	6. Pidge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set pre-series start.

“Fox, not dog.”

It’s a phrase that has become a defining one in her life, ever since she found her mask. She may be from the family ‘canidae,’ but her genus is _not_ canis. She is not a dog. She is a fox. And she will not suffer to be called as anything else, not even if it would make the other kids at school more open to her. Dogs are well liked, and wolves are pack creatures, but foxes… foxes are other, small and solitary and hard to pin down, scattered all over the world and woven through every mythology they touch, tricksters, shape-changers, far more intelligent than anyone is comfortable with them being, and all the more dangerous for it.

Katie thinks she’s never seen anything more perfect when she finds it, her sleek mask that covers half her face and shines like polished metal, and she wears it proudly around her neck from then on. She doesn’t know a huge amount about foxes at the time, not much more than funny videos of them hunting in the snow and the occasional story she’s heard at cultural days in school, but the more she learns, the more she likes. Having an animal mask is complicated and malleable, with more options in a way than being a Sage like her father or an Inventor like her Aunt Shannon. Matt, Scholar that he is, is right there beside her as she learns all this, ruffling her hair proudly when their mother tells them the old belief that only the strongest souls draw their masks from nature rather than the rivers of story.

Some people like her less after her role is revealed, whispers of ‘kitsune’ and ‘never trust a fox’ flitting from ear to ear. Others think more of her for it, mentioning creativity, intellect, determination. Most, however, don’t take the time to look properly, and assume she’s a Dog. Just because her Fox is silver-grey instead of russet – there are forty-seven acknowledged subspecies of fox currently living, more that are extinct, and, amazingly enough, most of them aren’t red!

…she usually gets to go have a moment of quiet contemplation whenever she gets too vocal about this, with a reminder that there are as many masks in this world as there are people, and no one can ever truly know them all. She still thinks they’re stupid, and gets into the habit of wearing her mask in a pouch on her hip when she’s not at home or with friends so she doesn’t have to put up with their nonsense, though it annoys her that she can’t wear it openly all the time.

It’s not so annoying after the Kerberos mission. Then she is glad that no one at the Garrison knows her second face – it would have been harder to re-enroll otherwise. Foxes are small and stealthy, ambush predators when they hunt, blending in with the terrain until they spring to land on their prey. It’s almost impossible to find a fox even if you _are_ actively looking for one, and if you aren’t? Yeah, no, it’s not happening. No one thinks to look for Katie Holt in Pidge Gunderson, in spite of the fact that he looks spookily like her missing brother in this disguise, and he smiles viciously inside. For all their tech and rules and superiority, he’s smarter than them. They see the mask resting on his chest, see his pale skin, and, at worst, they think Reynard, forgetting the subtle, smiling kitsune and the dangers of making one angry. They can’t keep him out, they can’t see her even as she stares into their eyes.

When she was younger, her parents told her and her brother of masks, how they can shape you and you them, the risks and the wonders that having a second face grants. They celebrated the day she found hers. There was a cake. They were a family.

And they will be again.

She is Pidge Holt. He is Katie Gunderson. They are a Fox, with forty-seven subspecies spread across every continent except Antarctica and countless stories, and the intellect and capability to use it all if they desire. One way or another, they will find the truth of what happened to their father, their brother, the pilot with them. They’ve got the scent of their prey, and, when he springs?

The Garrison will never see her coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I learned writing this: Pidge is utterly terrifying. Technically I knew this before, but I did not truly comprehend it until entering the headspace of Pidge in the pursuit of a vendetta. Thank heavens she’s calmed down some since she joined Voltron, she went waaaay more vicious in this than I expected!
> 
> Personally, I generally headcanon Pidge as identifying as female, at least primarily, but I also see her as something of a shape-shifter, able to step into a masculine identity with no problems or discomfort. That’s just me, though.
> 
> I love foxes, a lot, they’re such interesting creatures, both in regards to actual science and to mythology and folklore. They go where they like, survive in an amazing variety of conditions, and have a fascinating reputation when you go into multi-cultural detail. They have strong connotations with powers of transformation, camouflage, and invisibility, as well as an intellect so keen that they’re often the ones who make off laughing in various folktales. At the same time, this rich multi-cultural background makes a Fox mask in this universe pretty complex to work with, since it’s harder to nail down what it means to be a fox than it is to be a scholar or a guardian. Which is, honestly, another reason why it’s Pidge who has one.
> 
> There are twelve subspecies in the genus ‘vulpes’ (aka ‘true foxes’) and forty-seven subspecies of fox grand-total that still currently walk this planet. Also, fun fact, the grey fox is one of only two canid species able to climb trees.
> 
> Finally, this series is technically complete with each new chapter, but it’s also still very much on-going. I just have a… thing about leaving fics of this type marked ‘incomplete.’ When I run out of ideas and am actually done with this series, there will be a note at the end of the appropriate chapter.


	7. Shiro 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place over the period of at LEAST a month.

It starts with Hunk and a blanket.

Apparently he had not been joking when it comes to Caregivers and blankets, of which there seem to be a lot more scattered around the Castle Ship than there previously were, a multitude of bright colours and different textures of soft. He’s pretty sure Pidge and Lance have both squirreled away the ones they like best, Lance in his room and Pidge… he’s not actually sure where Pidge hid hers, but no one’s been able to find the one with the gear pattern anymore.

 In any case, Shiro is suddenly finding himself wrapped in blankets as often as not when he’s starting on a mental downwards spiral and they aren’t in the middle of a mission or something equally important. In fact, _everyone_ is finding themselves wrapped in blankets these days when they’re looking down, and it’s getting to the point where Hunk isn’t the only one doing it, either. During the debriefing on their last mission, Lance had actually gotten up from the table at one point, wandered to the corner, wandered back, draped a particularly vivid one over Keith’s shoulders, and then gone back to his seat like nothing had happened. The look on Keith’s face had been amazing.

It could be condescending. It could be smothering. It could be insulting.

It feels like the team is drawing closer together than before, learning to have each others’ backs in situations other than battle. It feels okay to accept these offers of support, and to offer them in turn.

Someone makes a blanket patterned with images of Coran’s mustache on it. No one will admit to doing it, but everyone agrees that it is the best blanket.

 

It continues with Coran and stories.

One day Coran just sits down beside him and begins to talk about the war back at the beginning – not the battles or the strategies or the alliances, but the bits that came in between. The moments there was time to breathe and the reality of the situation and their actions would strike home, the moments there was no time and it struck anyway, all accompanied by that quirky manner that keeps things… not exactly light, but reassuring. A thousand stories with the underlying message, _‘It’s okay, what you’re going through is normal, others have trodden this path before.’_ An oddly comforting concept, for all that it means others have had to suffer like this, because it means that this state has the potential to be something he walks through – it does not have to be the end of his journey, even if the path is long and hard.

But it’s Allura who takes him to the room where the stored memories of her father once were and reveals that Alfor was not the only one to leave a copy of himself behind.

“My father understood the importance of these things,” she says softly, hands not grasping her skirt as they enter the chamber, “He understood… perhaps better than I do, that our soldiers were also people, and the complexities that result from this.”

The Castle has over a dozen memory-based AIs whose sole purpose is to function as therapists, half of them of species other than Altean. One is Galran, an odd reminder that once the two species must once have been close allies (and it’s strange to see one not dressed in some sort of uniform). Allura teaches him how to call the mind healers up on the display.

Now he has guides to assist him in navigating his path. It helps.

 

Pidge thinks the whole AI chamber, while seriously cool, is inefficient.

Shiro finds this out the day she plunks a round disk the size of a tablet and the thickness of a good novel in front of him with a triumphant expression. “It’s a personal interface with the Castle’s AI library,” she announces, “So that you can pick your location to talk to them without having to worry about a repeat of the Crystal Venom incident.”

“Is that seriously what we’re calling it?” Keith asks absently, leaning forward across the table he and Shiro have been discussing strategy at so he can see the device better.

“You got a better name that doesn’t have any potentially horribly triggering words for anyone in it?”

“…no.”

“The yes, that’s seriously what we’re calling it.”

Shiro and Keith are both suitably impressed when Pidge shows Shiro how to activate it and a small version of Healer Flooble appears. The merman – Shiro can’t pronounce the name of Flooble’s race, even in his head, and the description of the teal and cream being is close enough – hovers above the disk, his tail gently moving to hold him upright in the non-existent water, his voice as clear and soothing as ever. “Good day, Takashi. Is there something you wished to discuss?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” Shiro replies politely, and explains about the disk. The AI healer nods in approval, turning to Pidge in the same movement.

“You have my thanks, and that of my colleagues, for finding a way for Takashi to more easily interact with us and the rest of the library. It is heartening to be able to offer support once again.”

“No problem,” Pidge tilts her head in acknowledgement. Flooble smiles, nods once more at Shiro, and vanishes as the disk deactivates.

Shiro picks it up and turns it over in his hands. He’s known Pidge for quite a while now, but somehow she keeps surprising him with just how gifted she is when it comes to technology. “Is there anything you _can’t_ build?”

“As far as you know? No. Especially not if I’m tag-teaming with Hunk.”

There is a quiet moment where everyone in the room who is not Pidge is grateful for the fact that she chooses to use her powers for good, and also that Hunk is probably the closest thing their world has to offer in regards to incorruptible. Keith coughs and pulls Shiro from a worrisomely detailed hypothetical world where Pidge has decided to take over.

“Uh, you said that that thing’s connected to the Castle’s AI _library_?”

“Yeah?” Pidge cocks her head to the side, waiting to see where this is going.

“Does it have more than just… medical AIs in it?” at her nod, a little spark lights in Keith’s eyes, one that Shiro hasn’t seen since the last time his friend was talking alien and cryptid theory, before the Kerberos mission. “Could you make one for me, too? I could show you some good aerial combat maneuvers in return or something.”

Pidge considers. “I’ll do it in exchange for a look inside Red. No unsanctioned modding or anything,” she adds at the protective look this earns her, “I just want to see if there’s any differences between her and Green – I didn’t have much of a chance to look at Blue, and there hasn’t been an opportunity for me to check any of the other lions over until now.”

“…all right, as long as Red’s okay with it.”

“Sweet!”

Shiro catches sight of Keith with his own disk (Lance has dubbed them PALs and the name, to Pidge’s horror, has stuck) not long after. A small, holographic Galra is standing on it, gesturing animatedly as they speak and dressed in red presumably casual-wear. He leaves before he can be spotted or overhear what they are saying, but not before he sees the slight smile on Keith’s face.

 

_‘Hunk got me some tinted goggles. He is my new favorite paladin.’_

The note has been slipped neatly under his door. The handwriting is a little different than he remembers, but, well, his own writing has also changed since he received his new arm, and it’s close enough that he still recognizes it.

 _‘You’re my third favorite,’_ it continues, _‘Mostly because Katie will hack my arm or something if she’s not second – don’t ask me how she’d find out even though this note is on paper, we both know she would.’_

This brings a slight grin to his face, in spite of himself, because he does know.

_‘I’m a little surprised I never thought to get a pair of these on my own – full sunlight or brightly lit rooms are kind of too bright now, so they’re really helpful. And they look kind of awesome. So I’m either wearing them or have them with me pretty much all the time now. Just, you know… so you know.’_

 

The next time Shiro catches sight of Matt in a room, sitting on the arm of a chair and chatting with Lance, he pauses instead of walking past or giving a slight wave from the doorway, takes a moment to look Matt over and see the shorter man is indeed wearing a pair of dark-lensed goggles, sleekly adding to the rather accurate ‘space rebel’ look he’s currently sporting. And it’s enough. For now, it’s enough to let him step across the threshold and walk over to the other two.

(And, he decides in this moment, one day it’s not going to be necessary.)

Matt looks up at the sound of his footsteps, a huge smile blooming as he draws nearer. “Hey!”

“Hey,” Shiro responds, a touch shy after so long.

“Perfect timing!” Lance announces, flopping to lean backwards over the sofa to stare at Shiro and completely derail any potential awkwardness before it can even start, “Shiro, you’re a sensible, stylish man, explain to this heathen why fingerless gloves are awf-” his eyes drop to Shiro’s left hand, and the black, fingerless glove covering it, “-ful…” he is silent for a moment, before his eyes rise to meet Shiro’s gaze, a world of exaggerated disappointment in them. “Betrayed by my own superior officer.”

It’s enough to startle a snort of laughter from him before he reaches down and bodily moves Lance so there’s room for him on the sofa, too, the blue paladin complaining in an over-the-top, ridiculous fuss that makes it impossible for ice to even think about forming, and therefore there’s no need to break it. So instead he asks the question that’s been on his mind for awhile now. “How’s life in the Castle treating you?”

“Not bad,” Matt admits, “Though the food was better with the Rebel Alliance.”

“Wait, _what_?” Lance sits up from his theatrics abruptly, “Is that a Star Wars reference? Please tell me it’s a Star Wars reference.”

Matt gives him an ‘I’m rolling my eyes at you even if you can’t see them’ look. “Naturally. Star Wars is _important_.”

And that is just… that is so very much a thing Matt would do- heck, it’s a thing he literally _did_ , and even as Shiro thinks this Matt is proudly confessing to his code name being Red Five, and it just…

Something loosens in Shiro’s chest.

(Yes, he realizes as it does, one day the goggles _definitely_ won’t be necessary.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was Allura. Allura made the mustache blanket with the Castle synthesizers. She made it as a bit of a joke and didn’t expect the group to like it so much, but is glad they do – humans can be so confusing sometimes. And I will stand by my headcanon of the paladins wrapping each other in blankets when one of them is down. 
> 
> This one's not quite as smooth as the previous chapters, but I really needed to get some groundwork laid out for Shiro. I want to give him a more solid support structure in this universe, but that's also not the main subject I want to write about (or that most of you are here for (I'm fully aware y'all are just waiting to hear more about the masks. ;) )) I will also maintain that any species that tried to get to space before inventing psychiatrists got sent back until they did. You don’t get to be a space-faring race unless you know to how to treat mental health as well as physical. (note: the Galra used to have them, but Zarkon got rid of them early on in his reign – they kept saying things he didn’t like about his mental state of health). There’s a wide variety of them because each AI has a different personality and bedside manner, as well as different specialties. #GetTheseKidsSomeTherapy2017 
> 
> Also, the Galra and the Alteans were probably extremely close at one point, as I don’t think they’d even accept candidates from races they didn’t trust deeply to be paladins of Voltron, and I like to imagine there’s a lot of cultural data from various species in the Castle, since Alteans were supposed to have been great diplomats. Therefore Keith’s learning a bit about his mother’s culture from back before Zarkon Ruined Everything™. I see Keith enjoying this kind of learning as well – he strikes me as curious, but in a more ‘go find out for myself or talk to an expert’ way than ‘find a book on it’ way. And yes, going with the fanon that Keith has always had an interest in aliens and the unexplained. Also, I’m not SAYING the Galra he’s talking to is a subtle shout-out to notllostel’s OC Lori from tumblr [Lori](https://notllorstel.tumblr.com/post/147260843728) and [bonus Lori and Keith](https://notllorstel.tumblr.com/post/147363377391) except yes I am, because I love Lori with the passion of a thousand burning suns.
> 
> Flooble never actively served on the Castle as a therapist, but he was extremely gifted at it and allowed an AI copy of himself to be made for this purpose. He's the one Shiro generally talks to.
> 
> Red Five is another Star Wars reference, bonus points if you know what it is without looking it up. Also, in my heart, Matt and Shiro are a pair of unrepentant fans of the series and will quote, reference, and joke about it with each other at the drop of a hat.
> 
> Finally, fingerless gloves are great, as a person with poor blood circulation who doesn’t like to have their whole hands covered, I don’t know why some people are so against them.


	8. Pidge 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set partway through Shiro’s first chapter.

“Funny story,” Lance says as he drops the packet of tech into Pidge’s lap, and that’s all he says. It’s okay, though, better than okay, actually, it’s appreciated – Pidge has always excelled at reading between the lines, it’s in her nature, and she appreciates it when people don’t try to dumb things down for her. In this case, Lance must have used his mask but doesn’t want to talk about it for whatever reason. That’s okay, too – she’s not much in the mood to talk, not with this new dose of madness that her life has been given.

For so long she’s been searching for her brother, her father, afraid of what might have happened to them, of how they might need help, but… even though she’d seen Shiro, still sees him on a daily basis, she hadn’t really considered that the people she found might be different than the ones she lost. The brother she’s found… god, she never wants to let him go again, but he’s leaner than she remembers, with scars, and a- almost a _warning_ to his movements. He’s become dangerous somewhere along the line, at least to some people, and he has eyes like a galra and an arm like Shiro’s, sans fancy tricks.

The mask is what hurts the most, though, the length of worn cloth shaped and marked into a basic Rebel that makes her stomach clench to see it. The day Matt had found his mask, his _real_ mask… she’d always loved the look of it, how it made her think of jade and new leaves and starlight, her slightly whimsical Scholar of a brother.

She doesn’t know how much of that is left now. People have been known to find new masks on very rare occasions if their old one ceases to fit, and sometimes the details will change slightly, turning a Sage into a Magician or something similar, but Scholar to Rebel… it’s such a drastic shift, and it-

“You’re thinking too hard.”

She nearly jumps out of her skin as Matt seems to materialize out of the shadows (and is _this_ what she’s been doing to the rest of the group? (…she hopes so, that was kind of awesome)), looking a bit more… himself. He’s had a shower and is wearing what looks to be a combination of borrowed clothes from the other paladins since his stuff had _really_ needed a wash, and- “Is that one of Hunk’s shirts?”

“Yup,” Matt spreads his arms to display the true enormity of the yellow shirt on his much slighter frame and grins at her, “It smells like safety. ‘snice.”

“He’s a Caretaker.”

“That makes sense.” He smiles, running a hand through his hair. It’s longer than she remembers it, long enough that he could pull it back if he wanted to, and that’s just another bit of strangeness. She’s always been the one with long hair in their family, even their mom has always worn hers short. But now Matt’s is brushing his shoulders while hers is still fluffing around her ears (because Allura might be willing to have to put her hair up every time she wants to wear a helmet, but Pidge is not)-

Her line of thought is interrupted by a set of knuckles rapping on her skull, with less consideration taken than should be for the fact that said skull is organic and said knuckles are metal. “Ow! What was that for?!” She glares are her brother, rubbing her head.

“You were thinking too hard again,” he says easily, “And, I mean, I know that’s what you excel at, but don’t fry your synapses, okay? You need those.”

“I guess,” she sighs and rubs her head again with a sardonic grin, “Can’t form Voltron with fried synapses.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“What?”

Matt starts slightly, “Oh, sorry, it slipped out.”

“What slipped out?” her brother’s always been a little quirky – he is- was a Scholar, they’re prone to quirkiness – but with all that’s happened… with the previous thought requiring a ‘was’ instead of an ‘is’…

Her fears are brushed aside with the wave of a hand. “I decided to keep track of how often you guys bring up needing to ‘form Voltron’ – just started yesterday.” He chuckles, “Good thing I’m not playing this like a drinking game, or I’d have to carry a bottle with my _everywhere_ , you have any idea how often the subject comes up?”

This is a subject she’d normally at least be willing to expend some sass over. However… “You don’t drink,” she says slowly, “You never have. You always said it was pointless.”

“Really?” he scrunches up his face like he’s just been told some strange new fact as opposed to something he should already know because it’s his own opinion. His face smooths out again a moment later and he smiles. “That would explain why I was so bad at it at first! And I guess I formed a new opinion on the subject at some point.”

The way he says it, so carelessly, like he’s not talking about the fact that he’s missing pieces of himself, parts of what made him _Matt_ \- “ ** _How can you laugh about this_**?!?”

And now he’s staring at her in confusion, and she doesn’t remember standing up but she is, anger and tears fighting for control.

“They _took you_ , and _Dad_ , and _Shiro_ , and they did… _things_ to you! You’ve been missing for over a year! You’ve had to stop being _you_ just to survive, they took- they took your mask, Matt,” and there’s a warble in her voice she hates, because it means the tears are winning, as if the wet-burny feeling in her eyes wasn’t enough of a give-away as she stares at her brother, angry at him and for him, “They took your mask, and you had to- you h-had to-”

She doesn’t say what he had to do, can’t say it, can’t speak for the tears in her throat… can’t speak for the way her face has been pressed into a familiar shirt and an even more familiar embrace, and she’s glad for it. Pidge has never been a ‘pretty’ crier. Her face turns red, the tears come fast and hard, her nose drips, and sobs tear out of her so hard she shakes, leaving her feeling utterly lost in the throes of her emotions. It’s not comfortable, it’s not fun, and it’s honestly why she tends to avoid doing it.

Eventually, though, the storm lifts, leaving her shaky and a feeling a touch hollow. And also a wet patch covering Matt’s entire shoulder and trailing down his chest a bit (quiznak, this is so embarrassing, why do humans even _have_ emotions).

“You were born on April 3.” The words are soft, with a hesitant air to them, as though Matt’s not sure how they’ll be received, “I started calling you ‘Fox Kate’ after you found your mask, and before that you were Darth Technus, because you wanted to build a more efficient Death Star to take over the galaxy with, but you really prefer Star Trek – you just want all the toys from Star Wars. I’m more of a Wars guy, though, and Shiro and I have been arguing about whether or not the prequels count as part of the franchise as long as we’ve known each other. I like Asian food, and I studied xenobiology and biology because Dad and I both always wanted to prove the existence of life beyond Earth…”

She sits quietly as he talks, both of them leaning against her former chair, wandering along tangents of memory as they come to him. Eventually she feels stable enough to start talking as well, adding her own memories to the weave, filling in holes he doesn’t know exist or agreeing that, yes, she always suspected their dog liked Matt best for some strange reason. Eventually she’s sitting up on her own, only connected to him where their feet are brushing slightly. Eventually Matt rolls up him left sleeve, revealing where the cloth mask is tied carefully around his upper arm, and she looks away as he unties it and lays it on the floor, eyes locked on the far wall until he speaks.

“Katie,” his voice is so serious that she has no choice but to turn to him, “Look at it. Please. Look closely.”

She doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to see this crude, ugly thing that has somehow replaced her brother’s _real_ mask, the one that could match Hunk’s for beauty, but she owes him that much at the very least for unleashing Hurricane Katie on him, so…

It’s fraying a bit around the edges, a tattered mess that probably won’t stand the test of years the way a proper mask would, but it’s made with care, she can tell, and the patterns are clear, the most basic Rebel grown smudged with- no, wait, that’s not a smudge, it’s a deliberate blur. And that bit there, that doesn’t belong to Rebel, that’s Schol-

She chokes.

That’s a Scholar line. And there, on the brow, inside the fire-

“I’m still following my star, Katie,” Matt says, voice gentle and a little sad, “I… know I’m not the same. I think I might be a little crazy- I must be, or I’d be more like Shiro right now, more… in pain. I _did_ have to let go of a lot of things to survive. A _lot_. But…” he moves to lean against her shoulder, tracing the edges of the mask with a metal finger, “There’s a lot I _didn’t_ let go of, too. Important things. I didn’t let them take _anything_ really important from me after those first days.”

She swallows hard, then latches onto him again with a ferocity she hasn’t openly displayed in a long time. “I missed you. And I was so, so scared…”

“Me too,” her ferocity is met and returned in equal measure, “Me too…”

“I was trying to find you- I- I didn’t know where to start, no one at the Garrison would _help me_ , and then when I got here we didn’t have any real leads – Shiro barely remembers anything about when he was a prisoner-”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I _know that_ , but it doesn’t make me feel better!”

“…do you _want_ me to be mad at you?”

 _‘Yes,’_ she doesn’t say, because the thought alone makes her feel somewhat small and petty and far more fourteen than she’s used to feeling, and also because she knows it’s the wrong answer. Even so, in a way she’d prefer it if he were angry, upset that she hadn’t been faster, smarter – quiznak, she’s a _genius_ , she _should_ have been able to do this-!

“Would you feel better,” Matt interrupts her internal spiel of self-recrimination, “If I let you look my arm over?”

“What?” she blinks, then shakes her head, “No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Oh.” He considers. “Could you do it anyway?” he grins slightly at the look she gives him. “I’ve been planning to ask you to since you found me – I met some other rebels who did their best, but most of the rebel factions don’t have the best resources for this sort of thing, and, I mean… I’d feel better, knowing for sure there aren’t any nasty surprises waiting for me, and you’re the best.”

For a moment, she almost tells him to ask Hunk instead, because she remembers hearing somewhere that doctors aren’t supposed to operate on family members because of emotional complications or something, but, then, this isn’t exactly the same, is it? She’s been the one-fox tech crew for her family’s computers and phones and things since she was seven, and she’s worked on and with Shiro’s arm a few times and he’s practically family (his official categorization is ‘bonus dad/space bro/guy-I-technically-have-to-listen-to-in-the-field’), so this should be okay…

Standing up, she retrieves the packet of spare parts Lance had dropped off earlier and starts walking. “We’ll have to go to one of my tech labs to do a proper full-diagnostic scan, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” She turns to look at him over her shoulder, straightening her glasses with a smirk, “Can’t have _my_ brother running around using inferior tech, after all. It would be embarrassing.”

“Definitely,” he agrees with a straight face, tying his mask around his arm again and rising to join her. “By the way… what’s with the glasses? I’m _pretty_ sure you’ve never needed them, but…”

Oh. Right. “They were part of my disguise. I… kinda snuck into the Garrison a bunch of times, trying to find out what _really_ happened to you, and, uh… sorta got myself banned from the base.”

“…please tell me you disguised yourself as a boy and snuck back in again…”

She turns to him, the picture of affronted indignation. “ _Matt_. Please, give me some credit.” She pivots on her heel and continues walking, “I disguised myself as a boy and _enrolled_ at the base. Sneaking in obviously wasn’t working, I needed better access.”

The sound of his laughter bounces down the corridor. “I’m sorry I underestimated you. But… why are you still wearing them? I assume everyone knows who you really are by now.”

This brings a smirk to Pidge’s face as she straightens her glasses again, purely for the sake of looking cool. “Aesthetic.”

“…what’s ‘aesthetic?’”

“Um,” dangit, she’s a tech wizard, not a linguist – defining vocab words is a thing that’s supposed to happen to _other_ people, “…Keith. Keith is, like, the _definition_ of aesthetic.”

“That was quite possibly the least helpful thing you’ve ever said,” Matt grumbles.

“I try,” she says humbly, then laughs when he shoves her, “Okay, okay, aesthetic is-”

 

“Can you upgrade my arm? Like you did your lion?”

Pidge looks up from her computer screen, blinking. They’ve been in the lab section of Green’s hanger for probably a few hours now, doing an in-depth investigation of the inner workings of Matt’s prosthetic. The technical information had passed Matt’s level of comprehension awhile ago and talk had shifted to Voltron and the lions, especially Pidge’s lion. “…the most reliable mod I did to Green was the invisibility field, and I haven’t really had time to try anything more combat-oriented.”

“Katie,” Matt’s gaze is intense and serious, “You have no idea how much I would love to punch things with an invisible arm, it would be amazing, imagine peoples’ reactions.”

“Yeah,” Lance adds, poking his head in from the doorway, “They’d never see it coming!”

Matt laughs and Pidge groans as Lance walks over to join them. “Did you want something?”

“Eh, not really. We were supposed to be eating soon, but Hunk decided to do some experimenting and the latest batch of food goo ended up tasting like my Tia Mari’s chicken enchiladas. Which means I’m probably the only one who’s gonna eat it, because Tia Mari’s cooking philosophy is that you can never have too much sugar or too much heat. My dad’s convinced that they’re poisonous to anyone who hasn’t grown up eating them.”

Lance settles down on the nearest empty spot of the work bench Pidge and Matt are currently sitting at, Pidge at the computer, Matt with his mechanical arm half-open and a dozen wires connecting it to several machines. From there he bends forward, chin on folded hands and elbows on knees, and proceeds to stare intently into Matt’s face. Matt shifts slightly. “Uh, is there something I can-”

“Ah!” Lance holds up a warning finger, gaze never wavering, and Matt, after a glance at Pidge, falls silent. A few moments longer and Lance nods sharply and leans back again. “Okay, I’m used to it.”

“Used to what?” Matt asks, tone carrying a not-unreasonable amount of tension.

“Your eyes,” Lance says, gesturing at his own, “Double-takes are funny, but I don’t wanna jump every time I see you, you know?”

“…and you were able to do that just by staring at me for a few minutes,” comes the amused but skeptical reply.

Lance shrugs magnanimously. “As the paladin of the Blue lion, I am flowing and adaptable. Also, my family is huge, the kind of huge where if you can’t roll with the changes you will be dragged under and drown.”

The two continue to banter in a friendly manner, but, at her keyboard, Pidge’s hands are frozen, eyes staring at something other than the screen, because she’s just realized that, somewhere in the past few hours, she had also stopped really noticing Matt’s eyes, and she’s trying to figure out if this is good or bad-

“You’re thinking too hard again.”

She jumps a bit when she looks up to see the combined gazes of Lance and her brother upon her.

 _‘It’s a good thing.’_ The thought pops into her mind without permission, _‘It’s a good thing, because it lets me look at Matt and see **him** , not just parts of him.’_

She doesn’t say that, though, because she’s met her quota of sentimentality for the next month, and also she has a reputation amongst her fellow paladins to up-hold. “Just thinking you should let Matt try the Tia Mari enchiladas goo,” she says instead, “He’ll probably love it, he’s the human embodiment of a garburator.”

“What’s a garburator?” Matt asks before Lance can comment.

And, yeah, it hurts, because it’s something they always called Matt at home, and who knows what else he’s lost that he doesn’t know about?

“…can I see your mask again?”

Matt blinks at the non sequitur, but rolls up his left sleeve, careful of the wires still attached to his prosthetic, stopping when Pidge puts her hand on his as he goes to untie it, and she nods slightly in thanks even as she stares at it, at the shape within the flames on the forehead, at the star he’s still following in spite of everything he’s been through.

Well, she’s been through a lot too, now. And she’ll be quiznaked if she’s going to let a few missing memories get between her and Matt after they’ve come this far!

“Thanks,” she smiles, looking up at him again, “Calling you a garburator is a colloquialism referring to the fact that you can and will happily eat just about anything, and it’s a reference to…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …Pidge apparently wanted to make up for the fact that her first chapter was so short.
> 
> Fun fact: I went to type that thing about Mrs. Holt having short hair, paused as I realized we’ve seen her onscreen and that I should really do my fact-checking first, did my fact-checking, then did a ‘dang I’m awesome’ dance because she really DOES have a very short haircut! Gods, I love it when I’m right by mistake!
> 
> Baby foxes are called ‘kits,’ so ‘Fox Kate’ is a play on ‘fox kit.’ Matt is going to be referring to Pidge as Katie for the entirety of this fic unless code names are required or he is using a personal/family nickname for her, mostly because I think she’d find it weird for him to call her ‘Pidge,’ as it’s presumably not a name he ever used for her before.
> 
> Hunk’s never getting that shirt back, btw. It’s Matt’s now.
> 
> ‘Tia Mari’ is an abbreviation for ‘Tia Mariposa.’ And… I’m doing my best with cultural accuracy, but, when you get right down to it, I’m not really from ANY of the Paladins’ home cultures, so I’m going to keep such additions and inclusions as light as possible, to avoid inaccuracies. For similar reasons, while I do very much believe that Lance is bilingual (the others might speak other languages as well, but I’m more up in the air with them), I myself am not, and the only language I’m really comfortable adding occasional words or phrases from is German. I do not wish to do to Cuban Spanish (or any other Spanish (or language in general)) what early fanfics did to Japanese. 
> 
> Lance totally talks to Blue in Spanish in this universe, though. Any time it’s just him and her, it’s all Spanish all the time.
> 
> Mild headcanon that Green has never had two pilots of the same species – she’s the curious one, and she likes to try something a little different with each one.
> 
> Finally… Pidge feels like one of those kids who cheered for the villains when they were young.


	9. Hunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Shiro’s second chapter.

Hunk misses his kitchen. Food has always been his medium of choice when it comes to caring for people – himself or others – and, while the Castle’s kitchens are amazing and very well stocked… he doesn’t know any of these ingredients, any of this equipment. Back home he knew his family’s kitchen inside and out, every corner, every nuance, every trick and quirk. His sixteenth birthday hadn’t brought a vehicle of any sort. No, _he’d_ received a new tool kit and a professional chef’s knife, in honour of his two passions and also of how he’d found his mask nestled between a technical manual and a cookbook five years earlier. It was the first time in his life Hunk had really felt like an adult, even if technical adulthood was still a few years off. The first time he really _felt_ like he could find a way to be an effective engineer for the Garrison, in spite of his horrible motion sickness.

His tool kit is still at the Garrison now, if they haven’t shipped it home to his family, and his knife is safe in its case back at home, freshly honed so it would be all ready for him when he returned for the holidays. He misses them, same as he misses his family.

…but man, he _really_ misses his kitchen, full of tools he knows how to use and, more importantly, foods he knows how to work with. Allura and Coran are open to picking up more than just supplies for Altean food goo whenever they come across them, and he’s a quick study when it comes to his passions, but Hunk’s basically having to learn everything over from scratch, and it’s super frustrating, especially when he sees his teammates feeling down and knows _just_ what he would make for them if he had access to proper supplies.

For Pidge, something with nuts, diced, but not sweet – probably that savory version of baklava he figured out for his friend Alexi, who loved walnuts but preferred savory deserts to sugary ones – for a combined mood/protein boost when she’s hitting a wall with her projects. Yeah, that would probably work perfectly, and the crumbly nature of them would force her to stop working and take her mind off things for a few minutes so she wouldn’t get walnuts pieces in the wiring. Grilled skewers of some sort for Keith when he’s feeling moody – bright fruit and vegetables next to more neutral-coloured meat, flavours a touch blended from being cooked in close proximity but also distinct enough that each piece would still taste mostly of itself, letting you mix and match tastes or eat things one food group at a time. He could get Keith to help with the chopping, too, which the red paladin would probably enjoy, while Hunk worked on the sauce and seasonings and put the skewers together – a pleasant shared task, good for gentle conversation or comfortable silence.

In contrast, Shiro would get bowls of coconut cream soup, the kind Hunk’s mom made for him when he was small and sick and pretty sure he was going to die _for real_ this time. He doesn’t know if it’s a completely traditional Samoan recipe, but it’s extremely traditional in his family, with three generations of Caregivers vouching for its ability to make just about anything feel better, so he knows it would help Shiro when he’s still trembling from a flashback or night terror. For Matt… call Hunk crazy, but he gets the feeling that typically the ideal thing to feed the elder Holt sibling would be either omurice or something multicultural with a bit of a burn to it, but that right now the best thing would be whatever kind of sandwich the guy typically had for lunch in school pre-Garrison, something bone-deep familiar for when the holes in his memory gape a bit too wide, but easier to replicate than a family recipe (he’ll have to talk to Pidge about it).

Coran’s the easiest, with his boundless enthusiasm and curiosity – he’d get a thousand different combinations of sampler platters, an adventure for his palette while he tells Hunk, or possibly Lance, about all the actual adventures he’s had and the memories each new taste, texture, or colour is bound to bring up. Allura, in contrast, would get a bowl of whipped cream, slightly sweeter than normal, and an invitation to put it on whatever she wanted, along with a look that says he _knows_ she’s going to just eat it with a spoon as soon as she’s out of his sight. Because plain whipped cream tastes like being a kid again, and Hunk would do a hell of a lot more than that to give her a way to safely get lost in her memories for awhile.

As for Lance… his best friend is both easy and absolutely impossible, because he grew up in a family that values its recipes and traditional foods as much as Hunk’s and, no matter how good he is, Hunk has been assured on numerous occasions that he will never be as good at Cuban cuisine as Lance’s Abuela Rosalyn, even if she has seen fit to share some of her recipes with him. On the other hand, he also knows for a fact that Lance would sell his soul for a cup of proper koko Samoa, because Lance has offered to sell it to Hunk many, many times, ever since Hunk got him addicted to the drink. And, to be fair, Hunk cannot find fault in this mindset. His family used to send him blocks of it at the Garrison, and he’d grind it in his room and then take packets of the grinds with him to the canteen to mix with boiling water and sugar, like some cadets brought special teas or coffees. Lance had been horrified that Hunk was ‘ruining’ his ‘hot chocolate’ by using water instead of milk when he first saw it, then did a perfect one-eighty of opinion when Hunk let him have a taste. He’ll have to introduce the rest of the group to the drink when they eventually get back to Earth, because Hunk can’t think of a better way to celebrate coming home than laughing and drinking koko Samoa will all his friends (and ideally their families as well).

As for Hunk himself… just the act of cooking for his friends or family has always made him feel better, moving in patterns and spaces that he could navigate blindfolded. …though he could also really go for some fa’ausi right now, but that’s a given at pretty much any time, so it doesn’t count. And it _still_ leaves him the problem of knowing what he’d _like_ to do but being unable to do it, because he _still_ doesn’t have the proper materials and he’s _still_ learning the ingredients slower than he’d like.

Fortunately, he’s also a Caregiver, and Caregivers are problem-solvers to a one, happiest when they aren’t needed and looking for solutions to whatever issue arises when they are, and Hunk would know – there’s a strong history of Caregiver masks on both sides of his family, including his mom and paternal grandpa, along with a pretty high number of Guardians and Healers. He’s always felt blessed to come from a family so rich in the desire to provide safety, comfort, and health to others…

…poi. He’s gonna make poi, for everyone, the Castle’s thermostat has been running a little warm lately, and they could all use something cool and tasty. He doesn’t technically have the ingredients for it, as there are no bananas or coconuts in space, but, hey, in Hawaii they make it with taro, and that silvery syrup he found the other day (and which Coran confirmed is edible) has similar properties to coconut milk, and the purrups they picked up on that last jungle planet (and which everyone like) should mash into a nice consistency, and there’s that tangy spice in the kitchen whose name human vocal chords can’t replicate, so this will just be space poi instead of Samoan poi. Yeah, he can do this – start simple and work his way up…

Lance almost levitates out of the chair he’d been draped over in the common room when Hunk pokes his head in and tells them all to come and get their poi while it’s cold. “Poi? You made POI? Here?!? See, this is why you’re my favorite, sorry, Pidge, I was lying the other day-”

Considering that he’d been in the middle of a verbal sparring match with Keith moments prior, this reaction is more than enough to get everyone else’s attention.

 “What’s poi?” Matt asks, looking over at Pidge and Shiro from where he’s been doing… something involving knives on the floor with Keith, “Should I know what this is?”

“It’s a staple food in Hawaii and Polynesia, made of mashed taro stem,” Shiro provides, standing up, “I tried it once – not my favorite but not bad, either.”

“Actually, in Samoa it’s more of a pudding made from bananas and coconut milk,” Hunk gently corrects him, “And in space it’s now made mainly from purrups and tergli syrup.”

Pidge is gone the moment purrups are mentioned, dignity abandoned in the light of learning that Hunk has done something potentially yummy with her newly-discovered favorite space fruit, with Keith… not exactly hot on her heels, but moving a bit faster than he usually would (they’re the same age, but the red paladin feels a bit like a kid to Hunk at times – shy, not quite sure how to handle people, and trying to keep up a tough front to cover for it).

Allura and Coran are arriving just as most of the paladins and Matt get to the dining room, and Hunk takes a moment to mentally congratulate himself on getting his timing just right; Lance is already inside, occupying his favorite seat with what would pass for patience if Hunk wasn’t well-familiar with exactly what that gleam in his eye means (and couldn’t hear the fast-paced _tap-tap-tap_ of pent-up energy being channeled via the feet). Still, his best friend gets a lot of points for the fact that the dishes of space poi are all still sitting untouched on their tray – he hasn’t even pulled one out to stake a claim on as ‘his’ – and he maintains his position with relatively good grace as everyone sits and Hunk serves them before sitting down himself. And for a moment, all is the picture of elegance, everyone sitting together with their dishes of silvery-lavender pudding.

Then the chaos that is group meals descends.

Lance dives in first with a huge spoonful, his faith in Hunk’s cooking abilities absolute, and Pidge isn’t far behind him, the only reason she’s not neck and neck with the blue paladin being that she took a moment to be verbally impressed that Hunk has made sparkly food. Matt laughs at her from across the table where he’s crouching in his chair but otherwise mostly following proper table etiquette (and Hunk takes a moment to be very flattered that he’s eating his poi slowly, because Pidge’s brother usually eats like he’s being timed).

In contrast, Allura politely comments on the way the bowls Hunk has chosen offset their content (she always seems to appreciate the presentation as much as the meal when they aren’t having goo, and Hunk is happy for the chance to practice some of the more aesthetic aspects of food preparation). To her left Coran is eating with a fastidious gusto that somehow keeps even a drop of poi from coming in contact with his mustache, cheerfully pausing between bites to relate bits of stories and trivia the dish reminds him of. Nodding politely, Shiro eats more slowly, eyes subconsciously straying upward as he rolls his first bite in his mouth, getting a feel for the texture and flavor.

Last to eat is Keith. This is not unusual – Keith is always the last one to have a taste when they’re having something new, watching everyone else’s reactions before he takes his first bite, then eating steadily, regardless of whether or not he actually likes what he’s eating unless it is truly horrible. The fact that he joins in the conversation after his first taste, however, means he thinks it’s at least okay (if he doesn’t like it, you won’t get anything but grim silence from the red paladin until his plate is clean).

 And in the middle of it all Hunk sits, taking a moment to appreciate the way the tergli blends the with the purrups (which mashed to something the consistency of apple sauce) to turn them smooth and thick, how the differing sweetnesses of the two compliment each other rather than fight, and the pleasant note of contrast the unpronounceable tangy spice adds. It tastes even better than it had when he made a sample batch in the kitchen. There are no differences between that batch and this one beyond size, but atmosphere is as important as the ingredients sometimes, and the kitchen had been the wrong atmosphere for this.

Here, in the dining room, with the Holts cheerfully explaining _exactly_ where and how they’d be flinging pudding at each other if it wasn’t too good to waste, with Keith giving a burst of unexpected but genuinely delighted laughter when he discovers the ice stars the space poi is covering (because Hunk had discovered the Castle can make little ice shapes beyond cubes and he’s just _had to_ ), with everyone talking and smiling and _happy_? This is exactly right, and Hunk makes a mental note of it as he takes another bite, allowing himself to be enfolded in the cool treat he’s made and the warm atmosphere his friends are making.

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So, now all the paladins have had a chapter from their POV, Shiro’s getting psychiatric support, Matt’s established, Pidge’s reaction to Matt’s return has been covered, and I can go back to being completely random about what each new chapter is about! I would say I’m never doing another mini-arc in this series again, but I am genre-savvy enough to know that if I do, I’ll instantly get irresistible ideas for at least three more, so I won’t.
> 
> Confession: I almost forgot to write Hunk a solo chapter of any sort. Not because I dislike Hunk or anything – as Shiro’s first chapter indicates, I think the world of him. That is, in fact, the problem. Simply put, I have at least a minor rant about something or other about most of the characters, positive or negative. In contrast, Hunk, when brought up, gets the reaction “Hunk is perfect, no further analysis needed, moving on.” In any event, I headcanon that Lance and Hunk have both met each others’ families and been made honorary members.
> 
> It should be noted that, while I’m pretty sure the concept of ‘you will never cook it better than your grandma’ is universal, this is even more true for Lance’s Abuela Rosalyn than usual, because she has a Master mask, of the sort that denotes mastery of a skill rather than over people, and what she has mastered is cooking. There is a good chance she was a high-class professional chef when she was younger, but I am uncertain. She definitely owns a restaurant now.
> 
> I couldn’t in good faith write about Hunk’s love of food and cooking without doing some research on traditional Samoan foods, and ended up finding this awesome site: [Samoafood](http://www.samoafood.com/p/samoan-food-culture.html) If you want to learn some great stuff about Samoan food culture and recipes, definitely check it out – it’s really interesting, and all the recipes I looked at included personal anecdotes about the recipe in question. Definitely check out the one for fa’ausi (cubes of a specific type of Samoan coconut bread soaked in coconut caramel) – it’s both amusing and sounds absolutely delicious!
> 
> Koko Samoa is Samoan hot chocolate. I actually looked it up in a few places, and all the articles agreed that 1) it’s amazingly delicious and 2) it’s a key part of Samoan culture. Baseline as I (a non-Samoan) understand it, Hunk would know what this stuff is and would probably want to make it at least once for everyone if he had the opportunity. Lance loves the stuff, as mentioned, and always tried to get Hunk to let him have both cups of it when Hunk made it at the Garrison. He’s made Cuban-style hot chocolate (which is very rich) for Hunk a couple times, but Hunk finds it a little too sweet. I, personally, have added trying both to my ‘to do’ list as soon as the opportunity presents itself.
> 
> Finally, I learned how to make omurice last summer, and it’s both easy and delicious. Especially if you cheat and use either plain rice cooked in chicken broth or leftover fried rice from eating out the night before. >_>


	10. Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout-out of thanks to everyone reading this - this story's already the most popular one I've ever written on this site, and it's only been up for about a month thanks to y'all! ^^

Forming Voltron is strange, unlike anything else they have ever done, a sense of unity tinged with individual thought, harmony, focus, as though several puzzles have suddenly woven together to create an even larger image. And as such, sometimes it’s a little difficult to tell where an idea originates from. In this battle, however, there is little time for consensus – the origins may wait until later, or perhaps be lost forever to the mists of time. It does not matter, so long as they do not follow it.

They’ve never done this before, never even considered it – perhaps they are the first to ever have a chance to try. In any case, Hunk is the first to move, one hand taken briefly from the controls to reach for his mask. He is their foundation, solid as rock and as steady, and his mask sliding into place under his helmet brings with it a rush of love so solid, so vast, that the concept of it ever wavering is beyond unthinkable.

There’s barely time to process it before Lance has moved as well, adding the second layer, laughter seeping into the love and opening new possibilities, a thousand sly grins and shared jokes that will weave them together into something powerful enough to shake the universe.

Focus comes next, Fox-quick and laced with intellect as Pidge joins them, supported by the love and blending with the laughter to turn it into something sharp enough to pierce the darkness, running through familiar shadows and trailing light as they go.

They won’t get far without passion, however, so it’s only natural for Keith to slip on his mask and show the rest of them that there _are_ no boundaries, only what has been tried or seen and what has not, and there is always something new. Everything is brilliant, and nothing is impossible.

Then all that’s left is to shape this wild, blazing new force that has just been born, a single mask left to give it form and purpose, and for the first time in forever Shiro feels no doubt as he reaches to his hip-

-the universe dissolves for a moment in a flood of love, laughter, intellect, passion, all woven together with a desire to protect-

-and a new sensation floods across them all, bigger and more breath-taking than any of them have ever felt.

_‘THIS IS US!’_

“WE ARE VOLTRON!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling esoteric. And toying with the idea of what would happen if they all wore their masks at once while linked together via Voltron. Do they actually form some sort of bond like this in the show when Voltron’s around? I dunno. Apparently they do in this universe, though.


	11. Finding

He’s alone in the moonlight when he finds it, slipped out of the small house his parents had rented for a thrilling solitary expedition that takes him a full _twenty yards_ along the beach. The little building is still fully within his sight, but the point isn’t that he go far, it’s that he does it alone – after all, Matt is ten now, halfway to grown-up! Time to start being brave, or he’ll never get to go into space with his dad.

Half an hour and he’s learned the nip of ocean air at night, that summer sand can be cold beneath your feet as well as warm, and a kind of breathless thrum beneath his skin at the knowledge that this moment is, and will only ever be, his, and that the world feels so big it’s thrilling. It’s not until he’s sneaking back in, mindful of just how much the rest of the week will suck if he gets sick from the cold, that he sees it, sticking partway out of the sand, leaning against the porch steps where absolutely _no one_ could have dropped it, and his breath catches in his chest.

Slowly, feeling more than a touch dreamlike, he pads over and crouches down, and lifts the mask from the sand, staring at the pale, silver-green shape, taking a moment to trace the star on the forehead. It’s- he’s never given much thought to what his mask would look like before. Some kids draw pictures or make toy ones out of art supplies, but he’s never felt the need.

Alone in the moonlight he removes his glasses and replaces them with the mask, gasps as the universe seems to _shift_ , as if he’s never truly seen himself until this moment, and, more, never really understood that the world isn’t _big_ it’s _huge_ and space, when he looks up, is _vast_ , and there is more to learn in this universe he lives in than he had ever possibly imagined…

Sam and Colleen are awoken that night by laughter too delighted to be kept quiet and come rushing out into the star-salted air to find their son, their little boy so full of questions, their Scholar.

 

At thirteen, Takashi’s starting to feel a little left out. He’s always tended to stand out – as a kid he was the shortest one in class and now it looks like he’s going to be one of the tallest, if his recent growth spurts are anything to go by, and his birthday doesn’t help. People like him well enough, but, well… they’re starting to whisper. It’s just an old superstition that if you don’t find your mask by fourteen then there’s something wrong with you, there’s no science behind it at all, but science has never been the greatest at warding off belief of this sort.

It’s enough that he’s started going to the nearest shrine every few days, even though he and ‘kaa-san have never been very religious or traditional outside of festival days – she didn’t even bother to get a new kimono when her old one got too worn a few years ago. But if the kami his ‘tou-san believes in can help him find his mask before next February, well… he’d be willing to believe in them a bit more, too. The universe is pretty big, after all, and no one knows for sure where masks come from. Maybe his 'tou-san’s right and it’s the kami who leave them, who knows?

What he does know is that the priest at their local shrine scares him a little bit. Yes, the man is very kind, and yes, its pristine whiteness indicates divine favour, but Takashi can’t stop the little shiver that goes down his back whenever he sees the man’s Fox mask, can’t help wish that one of the younger neighbourhood kids had asked him to take them again.

It’s always so much easier to be brave when he’s doing it for someone else.

And none of this stops him from rushing to get said priest when Takashi finds the mask leaning against the offering box, an odd combination of fierce and gentle in red and white, a violet oval on the forehead, like someone had pressed their thumb to it. Because if someone’s left their mask here- it can’t have been a mistake, not with how deliberately it’s been placed-

But no one else has been to visit that day – Takashi is the first. The priest has been tending the surrounding yard all afternoon, and he would have either heard or seen anyone who came. And besides, he points out with a smile, the mask is much too small for an adult.

It is the first time Takashi realizes the true depth of his desire to keep those he cares for safe, and that the strength in his bones may one day be more than childhood’s dream. The first time he looks upon the Fox priest without fear, recognizing that they are both Guardians of a sort.

(Takashi lights a stick of incense in gratitude every day from then until he goes to the Garrison (where candles, incense, and the like are not permitted) and whenever he is home afterwards.)

(That he loses his mask to the druids feels like failure.)

(That he receives a new one through Lance feels like forgiveness.)

 

For as long as he can remember, Lance’s dreams have been blue – he swims through the sky and flies in the ocean, wanders cerulean forests and slides through dunes of navy sand. His friends say it sounds boring. His siblings and cousins say it sounds a little strange. The joke’s on them, though, because they’ve never swum through midnight blue before, so they don’t know that the stars will stick to your skin until you can’t tell where you end and they begin and you really _feel_ like part of the universe. They don’t know how to catch luminous plankton in ice bubbles and set them to bob around you like the best festival lights in the world.

To be fair, Lance doesn’t know how to do that when he’s awake, either, but it still sounds better than the weird things everyone else describes when they talk about their dreams. And Papa is always encouraging – sometimes he even lets Lance use his paints to draw the especially good dreams, since he can never find the right shades in his crayon box. And the dreams just get better as time goes on and he gets older, broader and deeper and bluer, and full of laughter. It trails after him and around him as he explores, like music, mixing with the wind and the rain and the tide…

And one morning he discovers that some of it has followed him into the waking world.

Later he’ll run into his parents’ room to jump on their bed with all his siblings in tow.

Later he’ll show off the mask he woke up holding, proudly pointing out that, at nine, he’s the youngest in their family to _ever_ find theirs.

Later he’ll learn just how much he’ll have to learn in order to wield his ancient mask properly.

When he first wakes up, though, he barely notices the smiling white face sitting smooth in both his hands, his eyes caught instead by the ties that will hold it to his face – a bright, laughing blue.

 

Hunk almost doesn’t see it at first. Though, to be fair, he has a lot on his mind at the time, because his mom has just given him permission to use the kitchen to cook something _all by himself_ for the first time _ever_ , and things like that don’t happen every day, you know, especially when it’s happening a _whole year **earlier**_ than he’d thought it would be. So it’s understandable that Hunk’s feeling just a _little_ excited when he goes to grab his journal of recipe ideas from his bookshelf. To be fair, they’re not very professional recipes yet – mostly just notes on foods he’s helped make and some ideas for mixing traditional recipes with ones from other cultures – but they’re all written with his _best_ handwriting and kept carefully separate from the similar journal he has on engine parts.

In any case, he _really_ wants to find out what happens when you make fa’ausi with brownies instead of fa’apapa. He’ll have to do something to make the brownies firmer than normal, of course, otherwise they’ll crumble too much, so maybe he should actually be making a fa’apapa-brownie fusion first instead…?

The flash of warm colour where there should only be the blue cover of his favorite technical manual finally pierces the fog of baking-induced excitement when he’s halfway to the door, but once it does he drops his recipe book in shock.

That evening it feels like half the neighborhood has gathered in Hunk’s backyard, chatting and laughing, seeming almost as excited as Hunk himself is, though not _quite_ as excited as him because that’s not possible at the moment, it’s really not. Though he’s kind of nervous, too, because everyone else already has their real mask on and he’s _seen_ big groups of people wearing their masks before but not like this, not because of him… It’s with slightly shaky hands he puts on his mask for the first time before he feels the rush some of his friends have talked about, like something in his soul is letting out a relieved breath. The bone-deep realization of _‘this is me.’_

Then knowledge meets excitement as his community cheers and surges to greet their newest Caregiver with welcoming arms.

 

Twelve is a good year. His dad’s itchy feet carry them back out west that year, and Keith gets to see his grandpa again, and they’re near enough the Garrison that he gets to see Shiro, too, right before his older friend’s very first deployment as an active pilot, and it’s been two years since last time he saw Shiro face to face as opposed to through a video chat. It’s times like these that Keith is most grateful that his dad’s a Wanderer – he might not have met Shiro, otherwise, and he definitely wouldn’t have seen as much of North America as he has (he’s had a passport as long as he’s been alive, almost). It makes no sense how some other kids can be content to live not just in one country, or even one state, but a single _town_ for their whole lives. Don’t they know how big the world is, just how much they’re missing?!

They never understand when he tries to explain it to them, though, no matter how he tries. Though, to be fair, he doesn’t tend to try very hard – he doesn’t get along well with kids his own age. Older kids and adults and little kids all tend to make a lot more sense than other twelve-year-olds. That’s one of the other things that make twelve a good year – it’s a truck school year, which is like homeschooling, only based from his dad’s truck instead of a house, so he doesn’t have to deal with a lot of town kids or a new school.

It makes a bit more sense once he finds his mask that year, perched high on a rock formation he’s spent the whole morning climbing. Explorers aren’t exactly the same as Wanderers, but neither like to be sedentary for longer than absolutely necessary, and it makes perfect sense that he would be one. Less so that his mask is quite this… colourful. Keith is not colourful, he is sensible. Mostly. (Bright colours show the dirt, and if his clothes have visible dirt on them, his dad is more likely to remember when, exactly, Keith last had a bath, but sometimes he can’t resist a bit of red or yellow). He spends the afternoon sitting on top of the rock formation and trying to figure out how this mask is him when he’s not wearing it – the connection feels obvious when he tries it on, but it goes away when he takes it off again, which is aggravating. Eventually he just climbs down and goes to show his dad.

And it _is_ gratifying to see how excited his dad is about this, and reassuring to hear that, while not everyone understands their mask at first, they always figure it out eventually, and that it’s perfectly fine to decide he doesn’t want to wear his mask openly.

Better, though, is what comes after, his first blade that isn’t a practice sword or a pocket knife, the beautiful dagger that used to belong to his mother.

“We agreed you’d be ready to have it when you found your mask.”

Yes, twelve is a good year.

 

Katie does not like the outdoors.

Fact.

The beach, however, does not count as ‘outdoors.’

Also fact.

Therefore it is perfectly reasonable to be excited that they’re renting a small house that’s a two-minute walk from the shore for two weeks, almost logical when you think about it. Especially because Matt’s home for the summer from school, for the _whole summer_ and they’re going to build a computer. Well, _she’s_ going to build a computer. Matt’s going to hand her the tools and make appropriately impressed noises at the proper times. It’s going to be great.

She’s still not going to build her brother a lightsaber, though, because those are scientifically impossible. For now. And also because he’d probably cut his own foot off with it if she did, and she prefers Matt with all his limbs attached-

A glint in the sand between two rocks distracts her from the pressing matters of technology, potential familial injury, and whether you’re even _allowed_ to build weapon-grade lasers at age ten, and she can’t stop the instinctive whisper of _‘treasure!’_ that wisps through her mind at the sight. It won’t be treasure of course, because finding treasure on the beach only happens to kids on TV or in stories, but she still moves a little faster than normal as she scurries over to investigate.

And it’s not treasure.

It’s even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The average age to find your mask is between ten and twelve, though some find theirs earlier or later. In this world most cultures consider it extremely lucky to find your mask in a sacred place.
> 
> Lance’s father in this is an Artist, and he makes decorative masks, both the sort that are meant to hang on the wall and the sort people wear on strings along with their own masks. Lance learned a huge amount about masks from his father.
> 
> Fa’apapa is a traditional Samoan coconut bread and fa’ausi is what happens when you take that bread and smother it with coconut caramel sauce. I’m pretty sure using brownies instead would result in something more than a touch lethal.
> 
> As I mentioned last chapter, I’m not Samoan, and I don’t know much about the culture. Plus, I kind of see Hunk as having grown up in a close but multi-cultural community, and it felt right that there be some sort of communal welcome for him in this situation, so I went with my gut. My gut is a surprisingly reliable tool most of the time however, so I’m hoping this is one of those times.
> 
> I know a lot of people write Keith as having grown up an orphan or something, but I decided to do something a little different, as you just saw. And, holy crap, I was having troubles getting Keith to talk to me before, but after getting this idea? He would not shut up, seriously, he wanted to tell me EVERYTHING about growing up on the road with his dad. This is me limiting how much he could talk about it, actually, because I think he was prepared to go on for at least a thousand words. Also, Keith took a little while to grow into his mask, as mentioned waaaaaay back in the first chapter, when I was still under the impression this was a one-shot.
> 
> I’m actually a fan of both Star Wars AND Trek, and perfectly content to give both a lovingly hard time, so any opinions of one being superior to the other are purely the opinions of the characters.
> 
> Fun fact: I've known Pidge found her mask on the beach like this for quiet awhile now - I knew where she found hers before any of the others. Then it turned out that she and Matt found their masks in the same sort of place at the same age, and also that this was something they always felt close about, though I couldn't figure out a way to mention that without diving headlong into painful feels.


	12. Keith 2

Keith grows up hearing stories about his mother, how she was very beautiful and very powerful, a tall, elegant woman from another culture. And the pictures of her confirm some of this, as the figure standing next to his father in the pictures is a good foot taller than him, and her posture indicates that here is a woman who has never moved with anything less than grace, but as for the beautiful part… that he has to take his dad’s word on. Because he’s never seen her face.

“She was from a different culture,” his dad explains as they look at the album together, “They cover themselves there, and only show their faces to the people they really trust or their families.”

As a child Keith nods solemnly and stares at the pictures, memorizing the decorative mask his mother always wore, the elegant oval of stone grey with pale violet stripes and circles that indicate not Role but Identity. When he’s older he does his best to learn which culture, exactly, his mother was from, but though he finds several that dress similarly or wear decorative masks in public, he can never find any that dress or look exactly like her. Even the eyes of her mask are filled with tinted lenses, so the pupils and irises remain invisible.

“They were like fire,” his dad says when asked, “Or the sun, they burned so bright.”

As he gets older, Keith begins to examine the pictures more closely, checking the lines of her clothes for just the slightest glimpse of her skin. But even beneath the loose outer robes of dusty blue, faded indigo, and shadow green there is a layer of more fitted clothing and gloves, and he never finds even a sliver of exposed flesh.

“You got this from her,” his dad tells him, running a gentle finger over the purple birthmark covering the outer edge of his left hand, “And the one on the back of your neck.”

When as his hands are big enough, Keith starts wearing fingerless gloves as often as possible, and keeps his hair long-ish. It was part of his mother’s culture to cover their skin, so he covers the bits he got from her, in respect and in memory. He looks at her pictures still, though, and wonders what her face was like, what her true mask was.

“A Warrior, I think,” his dad smiles when Keith asks, “Your mother was a born fighter, the finest I ever saw. You move like her when you train.”

Keith always hates Phys Ed when he’s in regular school – what’s the point of learning sports when you could be learning to fight with swords or daggers or convenient bits of rock? The first time he disdainfully mentions this to a teacher his dad gets called in and has to really emphasize wooden, _wooden_ blades, of the practice sort, mixed martial arts, part of their culture, and a few other things before the principal stops being upset (after which the lessons on being sneaky start). It’s one of the best things about the Garrison – Phys Ed is replaced with combat training, which is so much better and adds some diversity to Keith’s skill set. Sometimes, when he’s at the cabin, his home base while he’s learning to be a pilot and to which his dad dutifully returns during holidays, he stares at the night sky and wonders if she’d be proud of how he fights.

“She was beautiful in battle,” his dad would always murmur when it was late and they were looking at the stars together, “I’d never seen anyone like her before, so completely different from everything I knew.”

Sometimes Keith draws pictures when he’s still small. Of him, his dad, and his mom as a family, of his mom teaching him to fight, of what his mom might look like behind her decorative mask. Short hair and small ears, like his dad has told him (he doesn’t know _why_ his dad made a point of it to mention her ears, but he always does, so Keith makes sure to draw them). Skin colour is harder – his dad says she was dark for her people, but Keith doesn’t know what that _means_ without knowing where she’s from, and that’s one detail his dad never shares, claiming she never exactly said.

“She loved you,” his dad reassures him, as often as Keith asks, “She loves us both. But she had to go – she was needed elsewhere, and I couldn’t follow. Wanderers don’t make for great soldiers, and we didn’t want to risk you. I can’t promise she’ll ever come back, or even that she’s even still alive, but I can promise you this – she loved you so much, and she wanted you to grow up free and happy. No matter where she is, I know that hasn’t changed.”

Regardless of her, his dad definitely loves him – the cabin in the desert wouldn’t be a thing otherwise, the home base that, as an Explorer, Keith needs and which his dad’s truck can no longer be while he’s attending the Garrison, and which the Garrison itself cannot be. It’s surreal to see his dad in the same setting but not living there so many times, but also appreciated. In the same way, Keith appreciates his dad’s conviction that Keith will find the culture his mother came from, one day.

“I might trip over them one day by mistake,” he says, laughing at his own roving nature, “But you seek things out. They’re not a very social lot, from what she told me, but it’s part your culture, too, and you’re smart when you remember to be. Keep looking, you’ll recognize it when you see it.”

Keith knows from the moment he sees Ulaz in the corridors of the Castle, knows in a silent way that he won’t allow himself to hear. The knowing gets a bit louder, though, with each step further he takes into the base of the Blades of Marmora, as he sees more tall, graceful warriors covered from head to toe, sees the masks marked in patterns that are familiar to him, even though he’s only ever seen one other like them before, and that one made of different materials, marked not with Role but Identity. Even before Kolivan speaks and reveals the secret of his dagger/sword, the knowledge echoes in Keith’s ears that this is what he has been seeking for so long.

He has found his mother's people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who noticed that each Blade of Marmora has their own individual pattern on their mask and went “hey, I can use this,” and then went on to do some world-building around it?
> 
> I think the paladins and Matt are all faster at being able to recognize individual masks among the Blades than Coran or Allura, as they have all grown up on a world where people have multiple faces (in a way) and are more used to that kind of facial recognition as a result.
> 
> Explorers, in this at least, travel all over the place, but tend to have a ‘home base’ they return to from time to time in order to rest or store certain things. The location of this base can change, but there almost always is one. Wanderers, in contrast, are generally nomads, regardless of whether or not they were born to a nomadic culture. They’ll stay in one place for a time, then move on, and if they come back they’ll stay in a slightly different part of the place than they did previously.
> 
> Where is Keith’s dad during the ‘present’ in this AU? Either continuing to ramble around Earth, looking for/with Keith’s mom, or dead as of partway through Keith’s tenure at the Garrison. One of those three. More details either when the show tells us or it becomes really relevant to the story.
> 
> Since it’s not obvious, I’m headcanoning that Keith’s mom is of the same subspecies of Galra as Ulaz, but of a different race than him, as I’m pretty sure the Galra have multiple subspecies in a manner similar to foxes or cats (accounting for the extreme physical differences between some of them, such as Antok, Ulaz, Thace, and Zarkon), but also multiple races within those subspecies (accounting for the more subtle differences between some of them, such as Thace, Sendak, and Prorok). So, Keith’s mom in this universe has a similar build to Ulaz, but a much darker colouration and possibly different skin/fur patterns. She didn’t dress exactly like a member of the Blades anymore, but her clothes were based on that in combination with certain human styles from various cultures.


	13. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Us.

Things are different afterwards, after they stumble out of their lions and back together, still more than a touch high on the feeling of being part of five masks at once, after the warm glow has faded and they’ve settled more fully back into their individual selves, after they’ve drifted their separate ways again. It’s not… not exactly a _surprise_ that something has changed, but there was no way of knowing how donning their masks while forming Voltron would affect them. No one has ever done anything like this before, after all, and it’s not really a surprise that they all end up regrouping near one of the Castle’s windows later that night, gathering around in the dimness to watch the stars go by.

“I miss Earth so much sometimes it hurts,” Lance admits freely, as the rest of them try to figure out where to start, “Everything about it, even the bad bits.” Leaning against the window next to Keith, he offers a faint grin, “Having you guys up here helps. Arguing with Keith and being a drama queen helps.”

“I didn’t know you were _aware_ how ridiculous you are sometimes,” Pidge joins in, stepping forward a little, “Or why you’re always so careful about using your mask.”

“Yours is more similar to mine than I would have guessed,” Lance replies, “I didn’t know being a Fox could be so _complicated_!”

“It’s flexible, kinda like Comedy,” Pidge agrees, then brightens, “You’re a lot smarter than I thought you were.”

“Ouch.”

“What? You act like a complete moron sometimes!”

“I didn’t realize Keith had feelings,” Hunk interrupts before they can get too far into this, “You know, like beyond ‘irritated,’ ‘intense,’ and ‘confused.’”

This… actually brings an embarrassed smile to Keith’s face and he rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not very good with people. And… I’m not homesick, at all. It’s an Explorer thing, my home base used to be that shack in the desert you saw, but now,” he runs a hand along the window ledge, “The Castle’s home now.” Then he turns to back to Hunk. “I didn’t realize you and Shiro were so alike.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Hunk shifts awkwardly but also looks a bit pleased as he turns to the oldest paladin. The ways they go about enacting their desires are different, yes, but both of them care so deeply for those around them. It’s just that the Caregiver is obvious in its intentions, and it is easy to forget that the Guardian also finds its roots in love.

Shiro quirks a smile back at him, then grows more serious, a metal hand coming to rest on Keith’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize how much pressure I was putting on you,” he says quietly, “And I’m sorry for that. And for not putting more faith in the rest of you,” he adds to the other three…

The talk continues for a long time as secrets come to light and confusions are straightened out. There are so many dangers they’re facing, things that promise to leave nightmares that linger for years at best, and all of it so very real. But there is one thing they have learned tonight that they do not have to fear, will likely never fear again.

And that is each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief look at some of the repercussions of ‘Us.’ Would probably be longer, more complex, and far more whimsical, but right now my brain hates me and is expressing this by holding all the writer-magic hostage. Next chapter might take a bit to get up as it rather seems I’ve misplaced my own mask at the moment.


	14. Further After

Keith is smiling more often. They’re not obvious, just quiet, happy little Keith smiles that sneak in around the corners of conversations and scurry away before attracting too much attention, but they’re there. Some of them are even in response to Lance’s jokes. And there’s a subtle new current to the arguments between the red and blue paladins, as though new lines of ‘acceptable’ and ‘unacceptable’ have been drawn in the sand. Lance still gives Keith merry hell about his mullet, for example, but his now suggestions on how to fix it gravitate more towards growing the rest of his hair out to match as opposed to cutting it off, and all mockery surrounding Keith’s gloves has vanished almost overnight. Sometimes even the gloves themselves vanish when it’s just the five of them, tucked into his belt or jacket next to his mask, no one commenting about the splash of purple on his left hand. He has a suspicion that this is what acceptance feels like.

Lance himself is walking straighter these days, still more casual than the other paladins but also taller, more certain of himself and his place in the group. When he speaks up during planning sessions his tone is calmer, allowing the others to really hear that his ideas are good, legitimate suggestions, not just cries for attention. He’s actively spending more time with people beyond Hunk and Coran, too, and suddenly seems to have found a new level of connection with Pidge in regards their masks. Allura has walked in on them talking about the subject a few times, something about being an actor versus a director or playwright. They share laughter now, as opposed to laughing at each other. He is learning that this is what respect feels like.

Pidge is Pidge. There is something about the tiny green paladins that indicates, even if faced with the heat death of the universe, Pidge would still be Pidge. She is always immutably herself, and that includes the times she’s being someone else. The Pidge that walked out of that last formation of Voltron, however, is a slightly more social Pidge than the previous one. This Pidge is one who will deign to do her coding and tinkering in the common areas as well as her labs, who is roping Hunk into more of her projects and talking to Coran about how the mechanics of the Castle work as opposed to trying to figure them all out herself. At the same time, when she does retreat into her labs, the others are more likely to leave her to it, allowing her space to invent in peace and privacy. She realizes that this is what understanding feels like.

Hunk has gotten a _lot_ more tactile. He’s been wrapping people in blankets since shortly after Matt arrived, but now he’s also initiating group hugs, offering friendly pats on the back, all manner of casual contact, though the exact type varies from person to person. Lance, for example, is completely cool with just being picked up and hugged out of the blue, whereas for Keith it’s better to offer and then let him initiate, with Shiro and Pidge falling between the two, and all of them being freer in their contact with him. The red paladin has also been found in the kitchen more often, a concentrating frown on his face as Hunk explains why you cut meat across the grain instead of with for a marinade or how to tell when all the parts of a shish-kabab are properly cooked. He remembers that this is what community feels like.

Shiro has been listening to Hunk more often when the yellow paladin expresses concern over beings they’ve just encountered, factoring the teen’s good observation and people skills into his assessments of situations. He’s been listening to everyone more lately, more thoroughly learning their strengths and weaknesses, that Lance has a talent for tactical strategy, that Pidge requires regular periods of solitude, that Keith may have leadership potential but needs more time to get used to being part of a team before he can lead one. Almost since they arrived he’s been doing his best to be the ideal leader, always calm and in control of the situation, trying desperately to overcome the trials of his year in captivity without actively confronting them. Now he’s learning to let his team be there for him as much as he’s there for them. They know what he’s dealing with and, regardless of how well they understand, they don’t think less of him for it, they still want him as their leader. He knows that this is what trust feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had more stuff I wanted to talk about in the last chapter but it didn’t fit. Fortunately there was SO MUCH OF IT that it was able to form into its own chapter. Woo!
> 
> Every time I go to focus on Hunk, he insists on talking about everyone else. He is a social bean, apparently. And you cut across the grain of the meat for marinades because it allows meat to absorb the sauce better.
> 
> An actor can be told to play a teacher, but the actor decides what kind of teacher they’re going to play. They have control over the character they play, and many different ways of being a teacher. A director is rarely an active character. Rather, they are the one who shapes the scene and the other characters, sometimes stepping in to engage or even playing a role themself, but often as not providing guidance from the outside. This is an IMPERFECT analogy, but it’s as close as I can get to explaining how the masks work when comparing Lance’s to everyone else’s, and you all really seem interested in that, so. ;)


	15. Allura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set prior to meeting Matt, but after encountering the Blades of Marmora.
> 
> So, you know how the last two chapters have had this kinda feel-good vibe to them?  
> This one doesn’t.

Here is the secret no one knows, that even Allura does not allow herself to know more often than not:

Once upon a time, Allura’s best friend was a boy named Tazone, and he was training to be a diplomat. They sat together for lessons on various cultures of the galaxy and passed notes and giggles and got in trouble for sneaking off to see the lions when their paladins were elsewhere. They grew up together, making plans for a future they were vaguely aware of, one where she was queen and he was one of her advisors. They were close, they were so close, they were family, for all they looked similar only when Allura practiced her shape-shifting abilities.

Their schedules drew them apart as they grew older and their training became more specified, but that never seemed to matter during the times they were together again, all the periods between whisking away as though they had never been. She knew how best to make him laugh, he could always find the word she was trying to remember, she knew just where to poke him when he was being annoying…

…he was one of the first to die.

There had been news of unrest on one of the more remote planets Altea was in alliance with. Nothing large, of course, how could there be – the galaxy had been mostly at peace for over a century. So naturally Tazone had been chosen as part of the team to go find out what the trouble was – they were both just past grown at that point, the concept of ‘adult’ still fresh in their minds, and starting to take on the responsibilities this entailed. It was to be a good learning experience for the young diplomat. He had smiled at her before he left, promised to bring her back something shiny or sharp, depending on what was available. She had laughed.

It was the last thing she truly laughed at for a long, long time.

And it’s why she hates Ulaz on sight. Because he is a Galra, because he is the enemy, but, even more than anything else, because he dares to look so much like Tazone. And he is not Tazone. Not even one of his descendants. Her friend died before he had a chance to even fall in love.

She has been dancing on knives until now, letting herself be lost in the strange sensation of falling asleep and waking up in another millennium. And the present is so strange, so surreal… it has been easy to do, to walk but half in this world she has awoken to. But with Ulaz her balance is lost and everything she has held at bay comes crashing down, how much she has lost, how much has been _taken_ from her, how Zarkon may have been ruling for thousands of years, but for her the start of the war is still painfully recent, and the knowledge feels like poison.

Feels like hate.

Unconditional hate.

For Zarkon, for Haggar, for all their twisted, vile race that has torn the universe asunder and stolen her everything. She does not want to see the good in them. She does not _want_ to acknowledge that the Galra are not some hive mind but individuals, each with their own opinions and desires. She wants them to burn, she wants them to _die_ , like Altea, like her people, like Ta-

She doesn’t let herself finish that thought. She doesn’t let herself see how she is losing her perspective on what needs to be done, how she is hurting herself… hurting her red paladin. No, she doesn’t let herself know – not until the evening Coran comes for her, expression serious, and leads her to one of the old rooms for viewing holos.

“Do we really have time for this,” she asks, abrupt and annoyed as he holds out a chair for her, “There are things I need to-”

_‘Hi, ‘llura!’_

Her mouth snaps shut so fast that she nearly bites her tongue as Coran activates the viewing diode and a small boy, a small _Galra_ boy waves at her from what looks like a Balmerra’s surface. He chatters to her, a quick message about what he’s been doing, before the holo is replaced by another, again of the boy but also- also of her, small, carefree, tussling without a thought for the juniberry blossoms surrounding them, turns to the two of them sitting together at some formal occasion, a still-holo from a different celebration, clips of old messages back and forth between the two, smiling, joking, laughing, _alive-_

The holos stop, ending on a shot of the two of them, a ‘recent’ one, arms over each other’s’ shoulders, smiling at the ‘corder, eyes full of dreams for a future that never happened…

“We can’t forget them,” Coran says quietly, walking forward to crouch in front of her, like he used to when she was small, “We can’t forget why it hurts so much that all this happened in the first place. And, Allura… do you really _want_ to?”

She stares down at him, at this man who is her second father in every way that matters, over his shoulder at the person she once was, at the friend she once had, her _best friend_ … and she shatters, like the memory of her father did, like her people did, like _everything she loves does_ -

And Coran is there, picking up every last piece and holding her close, stroking her hair and her back and making quiet “I’m here” sounds as she cries and cries and cries, for everything she’s lost, for every _one_ she’s lost, for waking to a galaxy that often makes her wish she hadn’t woken at all…

At the end of it she feels awkward and ungainly, curled like a child in Coran’s arms and yet uncomfortably aware that she is no longer child-sized, and feeling self-conscious for it. She has cried since they woke up, and she has grieved for some things, but rarely on a personal level, and she is also so very good at keeping secrets from herself at times, especially things she doesn’t want to know, and she had so very much not _wanted_ to know how much pain she still held, how much she still misses her friend, her friend and all of the members of his race who were her friends, her teachers, her guardians.

“We used to be- we used to-” the words stick in her throat, gluey from all the tears, and she shakes her head, trying to dislodge them, “I still don’t understand… _why_. H-how it could happen and- why- he did it…”

“I don’t know, love,” Coran’s voice is soothing, “I don’t know what goes through the minds of people like that, any more than you do. Wish I did sometimes – it might make it easier to stop him.”

She sniffles and sits up a little, looking at Coran while not quite meeting his eye. “I’ve been- I’ve been behaving very badly recently, haven’t I?”

“Yep,” Coran agrees with her and she flinches at the casual affirmation, “Can’t say I don’t understand why you have, but reparations will still have to be made.”

She swallows at the thought of that, feeling a little sick. “I’m not sure I can, for something like this.”

There’s no chance to get too far down this line of thought, however, as Coran has landed a reprimanding bop on her head. “You’re giving yourself a bit too much credit there, Allura,” he says, winking, “And not enough to the rest of our merry band. At least give yourself a _chance_ to do better, and for them to forgive you. Come on, now,” he stands up and helps her after him, “Let’s get some nunvil in you and then some rest. Give those old synapses a chance to settle themselves down, then try again in the morning.”

She drinks her nunvil and goes to bed, even allows Coran to tuck her in as they haven’t done since she was a child, but she does not go to sleep. Instead she lies there for a long time, letting memories rise up that have been suppressed for much too long, then rising herself to go to an old drawer, to the old holoscreen stashed in the back of it, filled back before the universe began to crumble with copies of her favorite still-holos at the time, and begins to look through them. More tears come as she does, because healing can be as painful as breaking at times, but there are some smiles as well. She had forgotten about that time with the qwagmore tree, about how she had been taller – in her natural form, no less – for that brief, glorious period of time…

The small hours of the morning find her still awake and walking down the Castle corridors on silent feet, robe held shut in one hand, holoscreen in the other, heading towards the training deck and their group’s other resident insomniac.

Keith freezes when he sees her in the doorway, and it sends a twang of self-disgust through her, at the realization that she has done this, done this to one of her allies, done this to one of her _paladins_ , and she bows slightly before he has a chance to speak.

“I came to apologize.”

“…what?”

Looking up reveals that she has surprised the tinge of fear right out of him, and so she presses on in the space this provides. “I have been allowing my emotions to cloud my judgement, and my prejudices to cloud my emotions. My behavior towards you since we met with the Blades of Marmora has been inexcusable in the face of all you have done and all you have sacrificed to be here. And for this, I apologize. It was poorly done of me to behave thus, and Ta-” she swallows, braces herself, then says it, “Tazone would not have approved.”

Keith looks… wary, grateful, a touch disbelieving, but mostly confused. “Who’s Tazone?” he asks, likely the easiest of the questions boiling in his mind.

“He is- was,” she swallows again, activates the holoscreen to show a still of two young adults, arms around each other’s’ shoulders and eyes full of dreams, takes a deep breath, and looks Keith in the eyes. “Once, my best friend was a man named Tazone…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe that crying is an important part of the healing process and a very cleansing action at times. That said, I did not set out intending for this universe to contain the emotional meltdowns half the cast probably need to have, but apparently it’s happening anyway. 
> 
> For the record, I don’t condone what I’ve heard about Allura’s behavior towards Keith and the Blades in season 2 (yeah, I haven’t watched the whole thing yet, just a few episodes, it was giving me a weird vibe, I’ll watch it in September when season 3’s out (though, yes, I do kno know all the plot twists because sometimes reading spoilers is how I practice good self-care)), but I do get that her reaction is understandable given her situation, so I’m also not going to give her too much grief for it. Betrayal hurts – it’s one of the most excruciating things in the world, in my opinion.
> 
> Also, almost none of this was headcanon for me before I started typing. It was literally a case of me going, “Hey, Allura, talk to me! ‘Here is the secret no one knows…’ ooo, this is interesting!” And then I spent two hours sobbing over my keyboard as I typed this thing up. Anyway, this is now why Allura was the one to tell Shiro about the Castle’s ‘mind healers’ in his second chapter – she’s been making use of them herself since then. She didn’t offer their services to him earlier because Shiro does not tend to talk about his issues in the show, and I don’t think anyone really knew just how badly he was suffering.


	16. Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with 900% LESS heart-punching than the last chapter contained. Fingers crossed that that was the low point of the fic, I don’t wanna do that again.

He wanders through the Castle ship like a wisp of smoke, curling from one shadow to the next, not fond of the bright places. He used to be, he remembers. He used to curl towards the sunlight like a vine and blossom beneath the full moon and the stars, back when he was a Scholar of jade and silver. These days he is something different, though, carefully kept shards of the old notwithstanding, and the light has no pull for him.

At the same time, there is no more darkness. His eyes burn through all but the deepest black, and partial blindness is a thing of the past. He doesn’t always understand, but he does see. Just as he is not always with the rebels he escaped with but is still a part of them. The Castle’s communication networks are very old but still strong and useful. And no one uses the old Altean frequencies anymore – most don’t even know of their existence. The one who they want least to discover them probably does, but that’s where it comes in handy to know a Fox who’s good with technology, and there’s not a hacker in the galaxy who could get him to bet against his sister.

 

Matt makes an interesting addition to the group, but a somewhat frustrating one at times. He brings with him knowledge and connections to maybe a dozen resistances and rebellions besides his own (impressive considering that he hadn’t escaped until after she had awoken), none of them as well-established or large as the Blades of Marmora, but still useful. The stars know they need all the allies they can get if they want to defeat Zarkon and truly free the galaxy, and Matt is more than willing to lend his skills and the strange reputation he’s built to their cause. And no one can argue the relief it brings Pidge and Shiro to have him around, once they’ve all had some time to adjust.

At the same time, the man is… she hesitates to use the word ‘broken,’ but he himself is more than willing to admit that he is no longer whole. He’s forgotten at least half of his own culture, comes and goes like a ghost, and doesn’t even seem to be _aware_ that he’s supposed to listen when she gives orders!

“Oh he’s aware,” Pidge says when Allura turns to her for answers, “He’s just ignoring the fact. He’s- he’s a Rebel now, you know? They’re not good with authority figures, and he hasn’t had relatively long to adjust to that. I think he’s actually doing a pretty good job getting along with everyone.”

…it’s times like these Allura wishes she understood human masks. She’s heard the _concept_ , yes, knows that they’re incredibly important, but true comprehension lies just beyond her grasp, in the same way she knows that none of them will ever quite understand how Altean shape-shifting works.

 

His retention is still good. There are holes in his memory he wouldn’t even be aware of save for the strange recollections of forming them in the first place, the previous contents of the holes vanished into nothing, but the act of digging still securely held. New memories form and stay as easily as they ever did, though, and for that he is grateful. They sit on the shelves of his mind, volumes bound in an orange-red that contrasts sharply with the earlier ones of silver-green, their pages full of codes, star systems, and battle strategy as opposed to flora and fauna, though the margins are full of strange vines and foreign beings (he thinks- thinks that this is what the pages of his schoolbooks once looked like, though he is uncertain). And it is not a bad thing, that this is so – it is the path he chose. He did not have to choose this one, there were others he could have taken, as simple and as potent.

He will never tell how close he came to trying for a mask far simpler and more ancient than the Rebel. He will never tell, but he remembers each time he sees smiling white, remembers how close he came at times to donning its mirror twin.

How close his role came to becoming Tragedy.

Yes, a Rebel laced with Scholar is far preferable to that, and he will be content to write for now in orange, in the hope that one day he may yet find a way to write in fiery green.

 

It’s not that she really had any pre-conceived notions of Pidge’s older brother, but, if asked, she would have likely described someone like a more science-minded Shiro, complete with the same fears and wounds left from their time as captives.

Instead, she is faced with a young man who has lost random chunks of his memory, including, apparently, how to properly sit on a chair. He’ll perch on the back or arms, crouch on the seat, drape himself so his limbs dangle over the edges, fold himself up in a knot, but never sit properly, back straight, feet on the floor. It’s a rather apt description for his general behavior, really, always coming in at odd angles, acting in a manner you don’t expect, laughing and grinning where Shiro freezes or has nightmares. At times Allura wonders if the elder Holt’s soul is simply made of sterner stuff than most peoples’.

Other times, though, it is more apparent that he is as unequivocally altered as her black paladin, moments when he is confronted with a new plant or species, and suddenly it’s easy to glimpse the brilliant scientist he must once have been, might one day be again if ever given the chance.

At the moment, however, his focus is mostly upon his new role of Voltron-rebellions liaison. From what she gathers, his remarkable uprising took place not long after their first battle as Voltron, and his time after was not spent idly. The ‘Rebel Alliance’ is well-named, as it refers not to the small band he’d vaguely led but to multiple factions that have begun to join forces against the Empire (a comment that never fails to make Matt bounce on his toes for some reason). Even now, traveling in the Castle ship as he is, Matt maintains the contacts he’s already established, and each new planet they stop on for any extended period of time will see him vanish off to discover what new allies he can scrounge up. Or inspire.

…he swears that he hadn’t gotten the Monthonians to set that city alight on _purpose_ , but Allura has her doubts.

 

It’s best when they land on hub worlds, places of trade and commerce and intermingling species, where rumors sprout and thrive. There he can look for the marks he’s learned and trace them back to their sources, find new allies or reunite with old ones. They cling to the shadows together, scruffy and ragtag outlaws, subtle and elegant merchants, fierce and wary fighters, and some strangely now with eyes like his set in faces a thousand shades of purple-violet (the typical human eye can see more shades of green than any other colour, but Galra eyes seem better adapted for violets). He did not like this last group at first, but he is growing more accepting, more willing to remember that rebellion grows where it will, and that purely evil races only exist in stories.

And so he trails after the various marks, another wisp of smoke following a trail of soot, and their words flicker like fire in the shadows, for where there is smoke fire cannot be far away.

 

She doesn’t understand how he does it, how he adapts so _quickly_ to working with the Blades. Even with the efforts she has made since that night Coran confronted her, Allura still needs to excuse herself more often than she’d like to leave the room and _breathe_ until she can see people instead of monsters again when working with the Blades. It is not a situation any of them are happy about, but she can’t force her feelings to change any faster than they are. Variations of “I am of a diplomatic race, and I will behave like a diplomat” have become her mantra as she struggles with her grief and her rage, and she allowed Pidge to make a PAL for her not long after the ones for Shiro and Keith were made, because she cannot bear to be in the main AI chamber for any period of time, not since the second death of her father.

(It is a tiny relief to see Healer Lektwi again, who has been an AI as long as she has known them and who counselled her through her mother’s death as a child. It is good to see someone who is exactly as she remembers them, even if they are a program in the Castle’s system.)

Matt, though, has not been speaking with the mind healers, as far as she knows – he claims the miniaturized holograms hurt his eyes, and Pidge has yet to make a PAL that can counter this problem. So to see him go from willing to kill on sight to making jokes with Antok is both confusing and frustrating (and more than a little humiliating, that he seems to be able to change so much more easily than she).

Is it because he has been through less than her? More? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand him…

 

“If you aren’t otherwise occupied, could we speak briefly?”

He looks up at the princess’s voice, then tilts his head to look at her from a different angle before typing a few last strings of code and sending it off to Twary of the Garstate rebels and spinning around in his chair to face her, arms dangling over its back. “What can I do for you, Princess?” he even remembers to put his goggles up on his head, so she can read his face more easily without their interference.

“I-” she looks away, then back at him, her shoulders squaring just a touch, “I need your advice. On the Galra. I need to know how you’ve managed to overcome your hatred of them in such a short period of time.”

“What?” her words send sprays of embers skittering through his mind in their lack of comprehensibility.

“Shiro is the head of Voltron, but I am the leader of this group as a whole, in many ways,” she says, “And I cannot afford to maintain my- my prejudices against some of our strongest allies, so-”

“No, wait, hold up” he waves his hands, then climbs to perch on the back of his chair so that their eyes are level, “I mean, who says I don’t hate the Galra anymore?”

 

“What?” it is Allura’s turn to be confused as Matt stares at her, his forehead wrinkled and perplexed, “But- you get along with the Blades of Marmora- you’re friends with Antok-!”

“Well, yeah,” Matt agrees, tone puzzled, “But I _know_ them. It’s harder to hate people that you know, you know?” he must see her expression, because he sighs and rubs the side of his face, much of his usual animation vanishing to leave a very tired young man in its wake. “I’m… not actually being very healthy about it at all. Katie would yell at me. So would Shiro, and probably Hunk as well. In my head, there’s the Galra, who I hate, and the Marmorans, who I’m okay with.”

This does nothing to alieve Allura’s confusion. “But, the Blade of Marmora members _are_ Galra.”

“Not in my head they aren’t,” he responds quietly, turning his head slightly so that he is obviously breaking eye contact, “It’s like… if I don't know them, they aren’t real people, just monsters. Which, logically, I know is bad, but in actuality I’m having a hard time bringing myself to care about.” He gives her a wry look. “Current solution is to just meet them all after we win, but that’s not really viable. Plus, I’m still angry at the Empire. Um, don’t tell Katie that last bit? She thinks I’m being mature about things.”

For a moment the confident mask slips away and he looks as lost as she sometimes feels.

“They used to be merchants,” she says abruptly, “And explorers. The Galra are a very durable race, and they have always excelled at surviving in hostile conditions. My people were similar in many respects, save that we favoured adaptability over durability, at least in comparison to the Galra. Our strengths complimented each other, it was part of why we were such powerful allies…”

 

They talk for over an hour, words weaving around each other in strands of orange and violet and milky blue, speaking of what the Galra once were and what they have become, of what they might be and what they are to the two of them, of how hate can twine its fingers in your soul like a lover and threaten to tear you apart as you attempt to loose yourself of it. Because they hate, the both of them, in flames of oily black and bilious yellow, no clean oranges or reds to transmute the pain and the anger into wisping smoke and scattered ashes. Once, he let them burn in his stomach, fuel to his rage at what had been done to his friends and family. Once, she let them weep from the wounds in her heart, a constant reminder of her loss and her pain.

Now they seek a new way, but the path is hard, and harder still for the fact that _they are not wrong in their hurt_. What they have lost, what they have endured… no soul could walk through such things unscathed. Perhaps they will never be fully mended again and there will always be scars, reminders of the injuries done to them.

“Scars are not a weakness,” she says when he mentions this, “They are symbols of our survival, to be worn with pride – that is what my father told me.”

“Just because we don’t hate them, doesn’t mean we have to forgive them, or even like them,” he responds, “Anger can be healthy, but hate’s just poison. I think my mom told me that once – her or dad. Actually, I think they said it to Katie.” He gives her a rueful grin and she laughs at the humour mixed with memory.

Words do not automatically cure all ills, unfortunately, but they can make it easier to find a path to the cure. When they part paths that day, the fires in his soul burn a little cleaner, the hateful ones slowly beginning to turn to something else.

Perhaps, if he is very careful in the process, he can teach them to burn green.

 

It was easier with Keith – easier to seek and to gain forgiveness for her actions, and, as a result, easier to tell him what files to look for when he became aware of the AI library and began to seek answers he had hesitated to request of her. It is easier with the Blades, to apologize for her past behavior, to request time to breathe when the situation becomes too much.

But it is hard with herself, trying to find the line between what is justified and what is accurate and what is prejudiced, especially when the lines seem sometimes to tangle around her ankles, determined to make her trip and fall back into the patterns she has sworn never to return to. It is very likely, she thinks, that the last person who will forgive her for this whole situation is she herself. Talking with Healer Lektwi helps. Looking at old holos with Coran helps. Meeting the Blades as people, and not just soldiers, helps.

And this tenuous bridge of understanding she is building with Matt?

That helps, too.

(Though she still doesn’t understand why he cannot sit properly in a chair.)

((Then again, perhaps that was never important to begin with.))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, even though the last chapter technically took place before the majority of this fic, and even though in my head/heart I knew that Allura has already made amends with Keith and the rest of the crew and started working through her issues like everyone else… I did not feel justified in just jumping straight back into our usual fair after that soul-crusher. So have some Allura and Matt talking through their problems bonding!
> 
> Sometimes it’s easier to talk about your problems with someone who isn’t a close friend or family member – with the risk of censure from such close connections removed, it can allow the words to come more easily. And I can easily see Allura and Matt having rather similar reactions to these topics (at least in this universe), making it easy for them to discuss them. Which sometimes leads to in-depth discussions about their experiences, emotions, and reactions, and sometimes leads to them eating space ice cream right out of the box in the kitchen at three am and going ‘screw the Galra, seriously, they’re awful, I hate them so much.’
> 
> Also, just a heads up? This is not a shipping fic, there will be no shipping anywhere but in my head for this universe. Believe me, I love shipping, I am a shipping shipper who ships (to use my friend’s phrase), but I’m going it gen for this one. You, however, are free to read between the lines however you like in regards to any and all of your favorite ships. Assume they’re happening off-screen.


	17. Shiro 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before ‘Us’. Actually, unless specified, most of this story takes place before ‘Us’ – that’s an endgame kinda chapter. Felt I should mention that, since I hadn’t earlier.

Shiro’s nervous. At the time it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to agree to accompany Matt to the latest group of rebels he’ll be meeting next time they’re planet side. He’s the head of Voltron, after all, so it’s only natural he be involved in these gatherings, where alliances and strategy are formed and discussed. Allura has been attending them ever since the… incident on Monthantas (and Matt swears that he didn’t get the Monthanians to set that city on fire on _purpose_ , things just sort of steamrolled, and that’s how it _happens_ sometimes when you’re starting a rebellion instead of just meeting with a pre-established one and seeing how well you’ll work together), and it’s high time Shiro joined as well. He did well enough with the Blades of Marmora, after all, surely this can’t be any more nerve-wracking than that?

Then again, it’s so much easier to be sure of himself in the control room of the Castle, or in the cockpit of Black, or wedged between Pidge and Lance as they argue over which version of Star Trek is best. At the beginning of the meeting it had been easier, greeting the various leaders, being introduced to some of Matt’s rebel friends who are there – tall, rangy, reptilian beings who laugh and know Matt as ‘Spark’ and offer to trade embarrassing stories with Shiro once they’re introduced – discussing tactics and the distribution of resources. Even the start of the communal meal had been fine, with Allura casually steering him away from things he won’t be able to digest and the friendly atmosphere around the cooking fires of the camp. In the flickering light, surrounded by beings from so many species, Matt’s new eyes barely even register beyond a faint relief over how much easier it is to read his old friend with his goggles off (hopefully this new development will hold over once they return to the Castle).

Now, though… now there is a smaller being, a camp child who has come up to him, bold as brass, to chatter and ask questions. Shiro had just been trying to make polite conversation when he’d asked after the toy they had, a ragdoll-type thing made in shades of grey and brown, with a tuft of pale fluff on the head. They hold up with pride when he asks.

“My borsther helped me make him,” they say, “To keep the Empire away. It’s To Die Second.”

“Who?” he asks, smiling faintly, a mild interest in whatever old legend he’s about to hear mixed with an odd sense of foreboding.

The child looks at him like he’s a little slow. “You know, To Die Second? He Who Was To Die Second?” Shiro shakes his head apologetically and gets a huff in return. “ _You know_ , the Champion!”

Shiro doesn’t notice his bowl has slipped from numb fingers until it clatters sharply on the ground, his eyes locked on the child in horror. “Why- why would you-?” the words stutter and stumble from his lips, broken and disjointed as his thoughts begin to fracture. The Champion- the Champion was a _monster_ , a blood-thirsty-

A hand is in his field of vision suddenly, pink-brown and very human. “What’s truer than the truth, Shiro?”

The question is so unexpected that it snaps him out of his shock, and he shakes his head, blinking up at Matt. “What?”

His friend grins at him, pulling his glove back on when he sees Shiro’s eyes are clear, then turns to the child, cupping his hand to his mouth conspiratorially. “My friends don’t actually know many of the stories, yet – they’ve been working mostly alone until now.”

This revelation is met with a stricken gaze and a scramble off towards some adults, and in the instant it takes Allura to ask if he needs anything, it seems the entire gathering has gone quiet save for some soft murmuring. Three figures of different species stand, talk among themselves a moment, and then turn to face the rest of the rebels.

“He was a being from another world,” one of them begins, “A strange world, one we do not know, of a species not meant for war…”

The words ripple and spill through the air, winding around Shiro as all that he thought he knew is spun and reshaped into something different by the eyes of others. Memories flicker at the edges of his vision, not quite solid enough to glimpse and, one by one, the threads connecting them thin and snap, leaving them to drift into the firelight, less important and terrifying than they once were. Something is happening, he feels, something strange and powerful that he doesn’t quite understand that takes the words and the memories and the firelight and weaves them into something new.

He thinks it might be magic.

How else could he be catching glimpses of a new figure in the crowd, one both familiar and strange, still holding a stolen blade, still dressed as one newly escaped from the Empire, yet standing confident and smiling?

“We follow him,” the storytellers crescendo in unison, “OUR CHAMPION!!!”

The crowd roars its approval and the final thread snaps like a sigh in the soul, the figure vanishing into the shadows and smoke with a final glance at-

“-ro? Shiro?”

He blinks and looks up to see Allura and Matt looking down at him, faces concerned. Matt appears especially worried.

“Are you okay? I- quiznak, I thought it might _help_ , to hear-”

“Shiro,” Allura interrupts with the calm strength he has come to know and rely on, “You’re crying.”

This is a surprise, but his fingers do come away damp from an investigative touch to his cheek. How odd. He hasn’t felt like crying _less_ in… a long time, it feels like.

There is barely time to wipe them away before one of the other rebel leaders, a thriskali woman, is hurrying over, her streamers a worried blue. “Are you alright? Spark has always claimed he knows the Champion, so surely this can’t be so new to you if you are his friends?”

Many eyes are upon them, and there’s that feeling again, that something is about to happen, that whatever he does next is important. Allura moves to stand, but she stills when Shiro puts a gentle hand on her forearm, rising in her stead.

“He was someone my friend knew,” Shiro says, letting the words come as they will and remembering the figure in the fire, his voice pitched to carry over the once-again silent gathering, “But I only met him in passing, in glimpses, and he frightened me. He was someone I met when fear was the only thing I knew, and he seemed to be everywhere, surrounded by blood. He frightened me.

“But it seems that, because of him, my friend is still alive. Because of him, I am still alive. Because of him, many are still alive. He frightened me. But I don’t think I need to be frightened anymore. Not of him. Not of your Champion.”

His words are met with approval, and with the relief of setting down a burden carried far too long.

 

That night the Champion and Shiro leave through different doors, though they nod in passing, walking further into the swirls of legend, walking back to his friends and home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is truer than the truth? The story. (Jewish proverb)
> 
> Not everyone knows what the Champion actually looks like – most have never seen him and don’t really have a frame of reference, and those that have, well, most of them probably didn’t see him too closely. 
> 
> How much of what Shiro saw was real and how much was simply a journey his mind took in the firelight? I think I’ll leave that for you to decide. Also, this chapter is a good example of why I leave things loose in this universe – I had no intention of the Champion becoming something separate from Shiro when I first wrote his story, if anything I was thinking of writing a reaction more like Matt’s, wherein he revealed he was the man behind the myth. But Shiro- Shiro isn’t Matt, now, is he? And as soon as I started writing this one, I knew the man and the myth were going to separate by the end of it, and I think it might be for the best. He doesn’t have to be the Champion anymore.
> 
> ‘Red Five’ is Matt’s codename, ‘Spark’ is a nickname he picked up. Also, with that new image released recently, I am beginning to psych myself up for my slightly-crazy!Matt to become even more non-canon than he already is (and yet to also somehow be less angsty than actual canon (because I think I’m the only person so far who’s looked at Matt and gone “partial insanity… yeah, he can work with that”)).
> 
> The end of this chapter inspired SO MANY cool images in my head, both of Shiro and the Champion interacting and of the Champion himself, wandering between the stars or wrapped in smoke. 
> 
> And, I know you all probably already know this, but for those who are newer to the scene, a borsther is an older sibling who identifies as shekyal. (translation: I do my best not to assume all alien familial patterns and terminology reflect human ones but cannot be bothered to think up more than a term.)


	18. Coran

Coran watches them, quietly, from the edges and the corners. Or, not quietly, but subtly, in the loud sort of way that makes you amazingly invisible to young people at times. And that’s good, it’s okay – quiznak knows they need a fully-functional adult on this ship, so thank the stars he finally agreed to let Althor put him in cryo as well. He’s honestly not sure how the rest of them would have handled themselves if he weren’t here to keep an eye on things, especially since they’re all apparently at that _special_ age where they _need_ an adult but at the same time don’t actually _want_ one. Stars know he remembers what it was like to be that age himself, running around in sleeveless shirts and playing his music too loudly…

…honestly, he’s a little ashamed that he didn’t think of telling Shiro about the mind healers in the Castle’s system, earlier, when Coran himself had nipped down to see them the very evening after they’d first regathered the lions, and has been seeing them regularly ever since. It was how he found the copy Althor had left of himself for Allura, actually, and he- he won’t pretend it hadn’t hurt, seeing his king and friend again like that, that it hadn’t hurt worse when that awful ‘Crystal Venom’ incident (as Pidge had termed it) had happened. It was heart-breaking to awaken to a universe where they had lost, as opposed to one where the cryo had turned out to be an unnecessary precaution, and he misses his friends and family, the whole crazy mess of them that had spanned all sorts of generations and species.

At the same time, though, Coran has always been an optimist and inquisitive by nature – he can’t help but be excited at this chance to see a time period he should never have lived to experience, no matter how tragic the circumstances. And the new paladins… bless their hideous little ears, he can’t help but love them. So backwards and primitive in many ways, with those odd masks he had thought pure superstition (at least until the first time Lance had put on his and created those undeniable results in the market place), and their complete lack of understanding about the universe as a whole… but at the same time completely willing to throw their lot in with the side that wasn’t just losing but which had already lost, to help others and to _learn_ , to band together in the face of overwhelming odds…

Not to mention the fact that, not only are none of them able to tell when he’s making things up off the top of his head, none of them have attempted to try and call him on it for some reason. Even Allura having to abruptly excuse herself when he was waxing poetic on the nurturing instincts of Caratweils hadn’t cued them onto the fact that he was feeding them a load of droben spores, and he really shouldn’t keep doing it, but there’s something so endearing about their confused little faces that he just can’t stop himself from indulging occasionally.

Which is what brought them to the amazing evening that happened not too long after Matt had been found. The day prior hadn’t been rough so much as it had been… wearisome, the sort of tedious grinding that wears on the soul far worse than even defeat in many ways and leaves a body feeling ineffective and helpless. Just the sort of day where everyone really needed good old Coran to swoop in with encouraging metaphors and anecdotes until they all felt better!

“-and then, out of nowhere, a pack of ravenous tolinades dropped down on us,” he was saying with relish, gesturing with his spoon as he spoke, “Their cries echoing through the jungle like-”

“Wait, back up a minute,” Matt interrupted, just as he was getting to the good bit, “Did you say _tolinades_?”

“Why yes, I did,” Coran nodded, doing his best not to be vexed at his narrative flow being broken, “They came upon us, great slavering things, with eyes glowing like-”

He was interrupted again as Matt burst into laughter, “Holy crap, you- you just- guys, you know he’s making this up, right?”

There was a moment of utter silence around the table, broken by a flat-toned, “What,” from Shiro.

“He’s making it up,” Matt repeated, still chuckling, “Tolinades aren’t real, they’re this thing you use to scare kids or trick gullible new recruits!”

“…space snipes…” Lance’s voice was quiet, almost awed, before the table exploded with a mixture of shock, amusement, and indignation, Pidge leading the noise, surprisingly enough, affronted that he’s been giving her false data about things, Hunk following with a million questions about how much he’s been making up. Keith looks a little disappointed, Shiro as though he’s trying to be less amused than he actually is, and Lance is crowing over the joke. Allura has given up attempts at dignity, just this once, and is laughing so hard she’s crying, arms wrapped around her stomach as she shakes with mirth.

It’s not _quite_ how Coran had intended to get there, but the soul-crushing atmosphere from earlier is gone as though it had never been. They’ll be double-checking everything he says for awhile now, yes, but he’s been mostly honest with them, so it shouldn’t be too bad and, besides. His children are smiling again.

That’s all he wants for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coran is a character I really love, but who I have a hard time getting into the head of in regards to writing from his perspective, so this chapter was a hard one. I do see him as handling the situation he’s awoken to better than Allura does, though, simply because I see him as being the member of the Castle Crew who is the most adept at practicing good self-care, so he’s been talking to the Castle’s AI therapists and working through things since day one. The result of this is that, while he’s still upset and hurt by events, he’s probably coping the best and most healthily out of everyone (Hunk gets a close second, though).
> 
> And it is one of my heartcanons that, while a lot of Coran’s stories are the unvarnished truth, he also makes stuff up from time to time for fun, just to mess with the paladins.
> 
> Keith is disappointed because he was (secretly) hoping he'd get a chance to fight a tolinade one day.


	19. Superstition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to finding Matt, post learning about Lance’s true mask.
> 
> Note – Masks: a Different Life is set in a different continuity of this story, so NONE of the things within it apply to this universe. It's a separate story that happens to share a setting.

The reactions are as swift as they are varied, and the first to act, surprisingly, is Lance, bodily tackling Coran before he can finish the quick sketch he’d been doing. Shiro is rubbing his hands together in front of his face, fingers pointed upward, as he mutters something to himself, and Keith, calm as you please, turns and spits between two fingers over his right shoulder. Hunk and Lance each go through a quick chant of some sort (and this is a little interesting to Allura, because while Lance routinely peppers his speech and converses with Blue in another language, she hadn’t realized that Hunk is also multi-lingual). Pidge, for her part, rolls her eyes at them all.

“Guys, you’re over-reacting,” she says, leaning against the table with her arms folded, “It’s just an old superstition, there’s no science behind it.”

“There’s no science behind a lot of stuff involving masks,” Hunk points out, “But they still exist and work. Lance, need me to sit on Coran so you can get Pidge?”

“I dunno – Coran, you good with just not finishing that sketch while I get this or does Hunk need to sit on you?”

“Given the circumstances, I believe I’ll wait for an explanation,” Coran wheezed from the floor.

“Awesome, thanks!” Lance stood, brushed himself off, then started walking over to their shortest member. “Pidge, hold still a moment.”

“What? Wait- hey, no way!” Pidge scowled, backing up, “It’s unscientific and, even if there is a grain of truth, who knows if it even _applies_ to Alteans, they don’t have-”

“ ** _Pidge Gunderson Holt_** you are not fifteen yet and you will hold **_still_**!”

Lance’s voice snaps with authority, his body language more like Shiro’s than his own in that moment, and Pidge swallows, then obeys while Lance says something very quickly in that other language he speaks, then brushes Pidge’s bangs up slightly to plant a firm, functional kiss on her brow before stepping back again.

“I don’t care if it’s superstition or not,” Lance says, maintaining eye contact with her, “We can’t afford any extra bad luck out here. And, besides,” his expression softens a little, “Teammates look out for each other.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pidge’s tone is dismissive, but her body language is less so, “I can’t believe you can actually do a mom voice, how old are you again?”

“I will have you know I’ve been able to use a mom voice since I was twelve,” Lance says, sounding affronted, “Because I am amazing and also because that’s when my mom taught me how, so that I could get my little cousins to listen to me if I needed to do the blessing for them and there were no adults around.”

“Now that that’s settled,” Allura interrupted, “Could you please explain what amid the stars is going on?”

“I’d like to know that as well,” Coran chips in, sitting up and rubbing his back with a wince, “This is not the reaction I expected from a little theoretical sketching.”

“It’s… a little complicated,” Shiro says, taking control of the situation again now that Lance seems to have done his part, “On Earth, some masks are more… auspicious. Others it’s considered bad luck to even mention in the wrong context by certain societies. Lance’s mask, Comedy, is relatively neutral, but it’s twin-”

“Tragedy,” Lance says helpfully when Shiro hesitates, and gets a slight nod in return.

“It’s considered one of the unluckiest to possibly have,” the black paladin continues, “In this age it’s mostly considered superstition, but the fact remains that it’s very old and very powerful, and no one wants to attract it by mistake. Talking about it is… mostly okay these days. Drawing it one its own…” he glances at the sketch Coran had been making, incomplete but still obvious in its intentions, “We tend to draw Comedy first, if it’s needed.”

“Ah.” Allura… would like to make a derisive comment about primitive beliefs, but she just knows that if she does, Coran will ‘just happen to recall’ the fact that the crystals her earrings are made of, as well as being suitable for communication devices, are supposed to ensure safe travels for the wearer (because, even with all the wonders of Altean technology, space travel is never without its risks). So instead, she focuses on a different portion of the conversation. “So, why is Pidge’s age a factor in all this?”

“Because she’s not an adult by any standards yet,” Lance says cheerfully before Pidge can say anything.

“She… isn’t?”

“Lance, shut _up_ , I’m a genius, those stupid rules don’t apply to me!” Pidge snaps, red-faced.

The blue paladin gives her a snarky grin as he continues to talk to Allura, “Nope, she’s just a kid still.”

“ _Fourteen is not a kid_!!!”

“A wee little Pidgling,” Hunk agrees, cheerfully draping an arm around their smallest teammate’s shoulder and receiving an elbow to the solar plexus for his troubles.

The conversation devolves from there into (mostly) good-natured mockery, the partial sketch left forgotten on the table, reduced to a harmless scribble in the face of their laughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s interesting to look at the beliefs that crop up in various cultures, especially if you happen to be a superstitious person like me. I believe all the paladins are actually relatively superstitious, because it’s always been pretty common among people like sailors and pilots. Pidge has fewer superstitions than the rest of them because she has Science instead.
> 
> Lance is the one who ‘blessed’ Pidge because, as the holder of a Comedy mask, he supposedly has the most influence in this situation for countering the bad luck. If he hadn’t been around, then either Hunk or Shiro would have been up to fulfill this role, as the bad luck requires the blessing of either laughter or love to be countered. Keith’s mask is more about learning and passion, so he wouldn’t be able to fulfill this role. Pidge could technically do this if she were of age, as Fox is associated with Trickster, which is another mask associated with laughter, but would be considered less effective than someone with a more direct mask. Lance is also unusual in that someone with a Comedy mask can do the blessing for someone else regardless of their age.


	20. Success

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Further After.

It’s an off-hand comment, made just before he signs off from discussing resource exchanges and drops with Narqueth, one of his friends in the Rebel Alliance whom he’s known since the initial uprising on the prison ship.

“By the way, Spark, when did you get a new mask? I thought that ratty old thing was supposed to be your good luck charm or something?”

Matt frowns, running a hand over his face subconsciously. “What do you mean? This is the same one I always wear.”

“No it’s not,” Narqueth insists, “The colours are different.”

“…as far as I know, this is the same one I’ve been wearing the whole time you’ve known me, but I’ll get back to you on that,” Matt says, more cheerfully than he feels, then cuts the connection after a quick farewell.

The instant his friend is gone, however, Matt is all but yanking his mask from his face with fumbling fingers and more than a hint of panic, because no no no, this can’t be happening, not yet, it shouldn’t be falling apart _yet_ …

Most true masks are made of a substance that feels like a combination between top-quality leather and ocean-polished stones – smooth, but with just enough texture to it that it feels really pleasant to touch, enough flex that they’re comfortable to wear and don’t risk shattering if dropped. They can be damaged, yes, they’re far from indestructible, but they’re still very durable, strong enough to last a lifetime. Even the ties don’t wear out like the ones on decorative masks do. You see a few made of more flexible materials, but even these show a remarkable resistance to the wear and tear of everyday life.

Matt’s mask, in contrast, is made of fabric. Strange, grey-purple alien fabric, yes, but still cloth, indeed, cloth that was pretty worn even before he bet his all and used it to forge himself anew. It’s a constant, quiet knowledge in the back of his mind, that, for all that this is his true mask now, there is every chance the Rebel he wears will not stand the test of time, and for all that it’s with him constantly, tied around his right arm or being actively worn, he avoids looking at it too often these days, afraid of what he will see…

This course of action is no longer an option, though, not when the future may be coming faster than he’d thought possible.

His new eyes cut through darkness better than his old ones saw on a cloudless day, but more light is better if he wants to get a really precise feel for colours, more than is available in the communications hub he’s claimed for rebellion work. He doesn’t need light to pick up on other details, though, as he hurries through the corridors and towards one of the common areas, small changes he hadn’t noticed until now, like the edges of his mask. They’ve always been ragged and slightly frayed – the result of being made from torn cloth – with the occasional thread working its way loose if he fiddles with the edge too much (an action he is much too guilty of (touching his mask has always been a gesture of self-comfort for him, and, even beyond that, the feel of the fabric is oddly mesmerizing through the cybernetic nerves of his prosthetic hand)).

Now, though, there are no loose ends – the edges are smooth and finished, as though the threads have been woven back into the fabric proper, no uneven jags or small tears. The eye holes are the same size and shape now, too, not just as close as he could get them, and though the majority of it is still soft and flexible, there is a stiffness around the middle portion, enough to explain why it’s been shaping more securely around the bridge of his nose lately…

A bar of light crosses his path, and his only reaction is to turn into the open doorway, attention still fully focused on his mask. The texture of the fabric is different as well, and the whole thing looks sturdier, less likely to fall apart if you treat it too roughly, and sometime in recent months it’s changed from the dark grey-purple of galra prison clothes to brown, the lines somehow fading from black to deep red and orange and – are those ones black or the deepest green he’s ever seen? Has the star on the forehead always had that faint sparkle to it? What on Earth-

“Matt? Are you alright?”

The voice yanks him out of his head, and he looks up to discover he’s wandered into the main eating room. Not only that, he’s managed to do so while an actual meal is in progress, and the rest of the group is staring at him with varying looks of concern. (Also, it’s really bright in here, but he can’t be bothered to pull on his goggles right now.) “I- no, I- Katie, do you have any images of me back when I first arrived at the Castle? I need-” he scrubs at his face, frustrated, “I just need to see-”

His sister is away from her place at the table and at his side in an instant, Shiro, Allura, and the others not far behind her, Katie pushing her sleeve up to reveal the wristband computer she wears these days, and before he can untangle his thoughts enough to explain a holograph pops up, an image of the two of them with their arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning, and his mask is easy to see because he barely took it off before he joined the Castle of Lions crew, and stars, Narqueth was right, it really _does_ look different than it used to, his eyes aren’t acting up, his memory hasn’t developed new irregularities…

The silence in the room grows as the rest of the group slowly makes the connection between the picture and the cloth in Matt’s hands, realizes what’s happened. The colours, those can be explained away, similar to what happened with Shiro’s new mask, but the changed shape… It’s almost like the ragged mask Matt created out of desperation has a new one forming inside of it. Which is, of course, impossible – masks only form on Earth-

“…it worked…”

All eyes snap to Lance at the quiet phrase, but he’s not looking at them, his eyes instead locked on Matt’s mask, the shock and awe in his face growing more infused with delight each moment. “Holy crap, _it worked_!!!” with no warning whatsoever he lets out a whoop, grabs the nearest person, and plants a huge kiss on their cheek from sheer excitement before coming to his senses a bit more. “Oh, oops. Sorry, Keith, no romo.”

“What worked,” Shiro interrupts, looking somewhere between hopeful and terrified, “Lance, _what did you do_?”

“Uh…” the blue paladin suddenly looks far more wary than he had a moment prior, “Okay, so, before I explain, I just want to remind you all that you need me to form Voltron, and also that Blue and I share a profound bond and she will be super sad if I get burnt at the stake for heresy or something.”

“Lance,” Shiro’s tone is warning now, and the teen in question coughs, but stops dilly-dallying.

“So, remember back when you guys first found out about my real mask? Well, the whole situation at the time got me thinking, so I went to Coran…”

There are some understandably shocked expressions as he tells them what he did, even Matt has a hard time with the concept of willingly going through with that, but at the same time… His mask seems to be getting stronger, more durable, and, what’s more, it’s changing to more accurately fit him, as opposed to back when he originally changed himself to fit it, a thing it most definitely never did before he came to the Castle, and, as soon as his brain finishes processing the sheer _enormity_ of what Lance has done for him, Matt is giving him the biggest hug of his _life_.

Not everyone is left as speechless as him, however. “How does that even _work_?” Hunk demands, forehead wrinkled, “I mean, I can understand the first bit, you were drawing on some form of slapstick, right? But this… isn’t funny. I mean, it’s amazing, and you covered a potential problem we could encounter that I hadn’t thought of and I’m probably going to go throw up a bit after this now that I have, but… how is this Comedy?”

Lance shoots his friend a pair of finger guns, “Laughter is super healing!” he laughs himself at the unimpressed looks this gets him, expression melting into something a little more genuine. “I just… thought about what I really wanted for us all, and I pulled on a really old version of Comedy, from back before it was about humour, you know? The original thing that made a comedy different than a tragedy.”

“…you were hoping we’d all get married instead of dying?” Keith asks, eliciting an impressed look from Lance.

“No, though you get points for knowing that! Plus, I don’t know where all of you stand on personally getting married. Anyway, comedy actually used to be pretty simple – you didn’t need jokes or a wedding or romance or anything like that for one,” he says, shooting them a shy smile, “Just a happy ending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We each wear a mask, we each play a part,  
> And this could be The End, but I hope it’s a Start.  
> (And if you want to hang out a bit and ask further questions, you can find me over on tumblr, very cleverly disguised as [greentrickster](http://greentrickster.tumblr.com/))
> 
> Remember Lance’s first chapter? You know, chapter 3? Yeah. I lied in the AN, that entire thing was to ensure Matt’s mask doesn’t fall to shreds on him. At the time, though, I didn’t know how much more I’d be writing for this universe, so I decided not to say. ;)
> 
> One classic distinction between a comedic play and a tragic one is that a comedy ends with a marriage, a tragedy with a death. This is what Keith’s referencing.
> 
> No one noticed Matt’s mask changing earlier in part because of change blindness and in part because masks can and do sometimes change like this on Earth, as people also grow and change over time. It doesn’t happen to everyone, but it’s common enough that no one really thinks about it much. It’s more common in archetype masks like Shiro, Keith, Hunk, and Matt’s than in creature masks like Pidge’s or the old ones like Lance’s.
> 
> No, that was not a mistype of ‘no homo,’ I’m part of the huge portion of the fandom who sees Lance as bi/pan.
> 
> And that… is that. The idea for this series flitted into my head last March and now, two months later, I feel like it’s time to move on to other things. I’ve loved writing this story and sharing it with you – it’s been a great way to ease back into writing after a long dry spell, and interacting with all of you has been an utter joy! Thank-you all for reading and reviewing (and for that one lovely bit of art), it’s been wonderful to hear how much this story has drawn you all in.
> 
> Which is why I’m actually leaving you with this: permission to play in the sandbox, since a few of you have asked or expressed interest. Add a line crediting me or stick this fic in the ‘Inspired by’ section for AO3 fics, and then feel free to play with this concept as well if you’ve got some ideas! The tag I’ve been using is ‘archetype masks.’
> 
> Oh, and if you think you know how the masks work? Then you do. And should, perchance, the two of us one day talk, and it should be discovered that you have made the masks work differently than I actually conceptualize them? Then you have simply found a different way of being right than I did.


	21. Reframing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Understanding and before Success.
> 
> Note: I haven't watched ANY Voltron since season 2, haven't read about the updates much, haven't read a lot of fic... basically, hi, it's me, the March 2017 Voltron fandom! I'm in the future! Wow! ;)

The whole situation actually starts with an impressive amount of panic, because Matt comes skidding into the middle of a strategy meeting out of nowhere and crashes into the table, expression wild, then bolts over to Shiro without answering any of the questions everyone’s now flooding him with. “Shiro! Shiro Shiro Shiro!”

“Yes?” the paladin in question asks, as unsure and worried as any of them by this sudden and worrisome intrusion.

“Shiro- Shiro, I just realized,” Matt says, gripping his friend’s shoulder and staring at him intently through his goggles, “Y _our hand is a lightsaber now_!!!”

There is a moment of utter silence while everyone gapes, and Allura is just opening her mouth to be rather cross (because, getting along with him better or not, she still does not appreciate their liaison with other rebel forces disrupting meetings over random nonsense), when-

“…quiznak, you’re right.”

And now everyone is staring at Shiro, who is examining his right hand like he’s never seen it before. Momentarily he activates it, examines the way it moves, then deactivates it again before delivering a shocked grin to Matt.

“That’s actually kind of cool.”

“I _know_ , right?!” Matt beams at him, and after that the meeting is just a write-off, because none of the paladins can focus on anything beyond arguing over the proper sound effects for _these_ weapons and whether or not Pidge or Hunk could potentially use data from Shiro’s hand to build _real_ lightsabers (the answer is no, and Hunk gets a very sharp, green-clad elbow to the gut when he begins to voice a disagreement, after which he assures them all that it is scientifically impossible).

The end result of all this is a paradigm shift that occurs practically overnight that mostly involves asking Shiro to ‘use the Force’ in any situation that requires his prosthetic, and also a temporary ban over making lightsaber noises when a cold war breaks out over what, exactly, the correct sound effect is (because, while it’s great to see Lance and Keith siding with each other over something, Shiro had not wanted that something to involve them siding _against_ Pidge and Hunk – especially not after the third booby trap).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not saying this would make everything okay in regards to Shiro and his prosthetic, but sometimes reframing situations can make them a lot easier to adapt to or tolerate. Also, I don’t see nearly enough stuff comparing Shiro’s hand to a lightsaber, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen ANYTHING doing so, and that’s just tragic, because I completely want to see the paladins (and Matt) making a bunch of stupid Star Wars jokes and puns at each other. Also Star Trek puns/jokes. Maybe even Star Gate. I’ve never even watched that one, but the sci-fi Star trio must be respected!
> 
> There were several ideas I had for chapters for this that I didn't finish last year - this is one of them. If we're all lucky, maybe I'll get a few more up!


	22. Keith 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Further After
> 
> (note: while I have no beef with Krolia, she showed up long after I had given Keith an OC mom in this universe, so she will not be appearing in it)

It doesn’t happen how Keith thought it would. If asked, he would have guessed something dramatic, along the lines of running into each other during an intense mission and a moment of shocked recognition at the pivotal moment, or else something more blasé, an arranged meeting during downtime for them both, a table and two chairs in a nondescript room. What would happen next… he’s not sure. His feelings on the subject have always been a touch mixed, and he just-

No.

Stop.

Breathe.

The point is, none of the above happened, and he doesn’t _care_ if Lance’s mask was in one of the hip cases they _all_ use in uniform and nowhere near his face, he blames him anyway, because what happens is this:

It’s been a few months since they found Matt, and a few longer since they encountered the Blades of Marmora and Keith found his mother’s people, and it’s been… a mixed bag. Because the discovery that he’s half alien is- well. Actually it’s kind of cool. Just in the most general sense of the concept, he’s been interested in cryptids and aliens almost as long as he has blades and going fast. The fact that the specific type of alien he is half of is Galra is… decidedly less cool. By a lot. He gets why Allura is upset, especially once she apologizes and explains, but it still hurts. A lot.

At the same time… he’s been searching for his mother’s culture since he was small, and now he’s finally found it, just like his dad said he would, and learning about it, about what it used to be, from the Castle’s AI library has been amazing. Irrolain, the cultural specialist and historian AI he most often talks to, is friendly and casual, easy to chat with, to learn from, and he’s finally reached the point where it’s more exciting than nerve-wracking when the Blades of Marmora contact the Castle requesting another meet to exchange information.

He’s not the only one excited either. Shiro has requested that Keith accompany him again, on the grounds that Keith really does need to learn how to do negotiations and meetings that do not have ‘hostile’ as a descriptor. However, this time Lance is also coming, to the blue paladin’s great delight.

“I want you to keep an eye on the mood,” Shiro says while explaining his choices to the team (a thing he’s working to do a bit more often these days), “If things start to get too tense, or the situation looks like it’s going south, do your best to lighten things up again, just enough that we don’t alienate each other. You can do that without putting your mask on, right?”

“You bet!” Lance snaps off a quick salute, standing up a bit straighter, still not quite over the fact that he’s been included in such things more often these days. And it’s probably because of this, because he’s feeling more secure in his place on the team, that less than a moment later Lance adds, a little more openly, “Or, I probably can. If I’m wearing my mask it’s no problem, but sense of humour tends to be pretty different even just culture to culture on Earth, never mind out here.”

Shiro nods. “Just do your best. If nothing else, it will signal me that I need to try and shift tactics.”

Lance considers a moment, then grins. “Worst case scenario, I’ll just noisily fall out of my chair and say Voltron almost didn’t have a leg to stand on – that usually gets at least a groan.”

Keith actually has to bite the inside of his cheek at that one, because it doesn’t matter that the guy has a Comedy mask, Lance is not allowed to know that Keith thinks he’s funny.

 

The exchange actually goes pretty smoothly once the three of them arrive. They’ve been working together long enough that both sides have a decent amount of respect for each other and a fair modicum of trust. Members of the Blade sometimes hitch a ride on the Castle ship if destinations align, and at least twice they’ve shown up just before things got seriously ugly for Team Voltron. Yes, there is a certain amount of wariness – the Blades of Marmora are an old group and not used to working with other rebel factions, Allura is still too uncomfortable to meet with them in their bases, Shiro cannot meet with them alone at all or it _will_ trigger flashbacks. The road to a true alliance is not a smooth one, but they are all walking it as best they can, and that counts for something.

So far they’ve managed to avoid any of the more typical bumps for this meeting, though, and Keith is feeling somewhat pleased with himself because he’s actually managed to ‘patience yields focus’ himself out of making a couple of tempting but probably unhelpful retorts.

So naturally that’s when the door to the room bursts open and all heads turn to see another Blade standing rooted to the spot, a small box under one arm, as they take in the fact that the room is actually occupied by a lot of very important people. There’s just time for them to curse before Antok barrels in after them and they have to duck and twist out of his reach in a pained motion.

“Careful, you big lump, you’re going to send me back to medical at this rate!”

“You’re supposed to still be _in_ medical,” Antok snaps back (and it’s always a little impressive just how light on his feet he can be), “You left without permission!”

“I don’t need permission, I _have_ a mission, and I’m already late!” the figure snaps, attention leaving the room as they attempt to get around the larger Blade.

“You don’t have clearance to fly again!”

“And you can’t afford to _not_ have me fly this one!” comes the swift reply, along with a nimble lunge to try and dive around Antok, only-

“… _Mom_?”

Keith hadn’t realized that he was standing until the word was out of his mouth, and the figure staggers, spinning to face him, allowing him to truly affirm that, yes. He recognizes the mask that they are- that _she_ is wearing. It’s made of different materials, the colours are a touch off, but he’s spent _hours_ staring at the family photographs, and he knows that identity mask as well as he knows his own true one.

“Do I- …Keith?” she goes stock-still for a moment, then-

There’s a faint ‘fwip’ and she crumples to the ground, a small dart sticking out of her back.

“Got her!” a new voice announces cheerfully, coming into view around Antok, “Good job, how did you get her to stay still long enough to-” the new Blade hesitates, looking around at the strange scene they have just walked in on, “Did we interrupt something?”

“I- what did you-?” Keith’s mind is kind of on lock-down because- well, surely they didn’t-

“It was a fast-acting tranquilizer dart,” Kolivan announces from the head of the table where he’s rubbing his forehead, “Usually we use them on enemies, and occasionally on soldiers that are mentally ready to return to active duty before they are physically ready. That said, allow me to introduce you to one of our best reconnaissance pilots – Nazair.”

 

It turns out that Kolivan had been planning to take them to the infirmary before they left – Keith had done a drawing of the identity mask he now knows for sure matches his mother’s Marmora mask not long after they first encountered the Blade, but, well… they’re in the middle of a rather large war, and getting ahold of people, especially pilots with high mission turnover rates, can be difficult. The fact that Keith’s father is apparently not the only person in his family who will try to walk off broken ribs (and hadn’t _that_ been a fun winter) has not helped matters. Nor the fact that apparently a communications mix-up had occurred, meaning Nazair had been convinced that the Voltron team and thus her son were in an entirely different section of the galaxy.

That the mission she was trying to escape medical to go on would have taken her there eases the situation, just enough that Keith can keep a reign on his frustration at the circumstances and finally meet the woman he’s been wondering about for most of his life.

 

She smiles at him when he’s finally able to come see her in the infirmary (when the dart has finally worn off), and it’s… an obnoxiously familiar scene, because she’s tethered to the bed, meaning, of all the questions he’s been dying to ask, his first one ends up being, “Really?”

The response he gets is a rueful shrug. “The healing pods are all in use. And there’s a _reason_ your father and I got along so well.”

Keith groans and sits down on the chair that’s been provided, a small table between them, because, dammit, he’s always kind of hoped his dad was lying about that bit and he secretly has some sensible genes hidden in there somewhere. A somewhat uncomfortable silence descends after this because- where to start? What to say? He has always mostly believed his dad out of hand when he told stories about Keith’s mother, because he wanted them to be true, but now that he’s actually facing her he’s suddenly having doubts-

“Here.”

He starts as Nazair pulls a small box out from behind herself and sets it on the table between them – presumably the one she’d been carrying earlier. She sits back, arms folded uncomfortably, when he raises an eyebrow at her.

“I’ve been a soldier long enough to know that words can feel… cheap in certain situations. So I thought this might be better. Letting you see this might make more sense.”

A touch unwillingly Keith reaches out and pulls the box towards himself, noting the slightly smeared writing on its lid – his Galran isn’t as good as Pidge or Hunk’s, but he knows enough to recognize these translate to ‘ _for after the war_.’ That’s… unexpected. And the contents are even moreso.

An old band shirt, one he’s seen his father wearing in pictures, that his father always said his mother liked to steal. An elementary school level book on masks, notes scribbled in Galran throughout the margins when he flips through, a few parts circled and highlighted, the odd word here or there in English, the letters shaky enough to show the writer is using an unfamiliar alphabet. A small pouch that holds an old, goldish ring on a chain. And, wrapped carefully in what might be an old scrap of blanket … his mother’s identity mask, the one he’s been staring at photographs of his whole life, wondering what lay behind it…

He knows now. She’s sitting right across from him, face bare, hood back. Her appearance is… similar to how Ulaz had looked. A few shades darker, the markings on her head ending in points rather than flattened (though her eyebrows are just as wild), and her crest of hair worn longer in the front by a few inches and enough to be braided in the back. There’s a somewhat more feminine cast to her face, and her ears are indeed on the small side for a Galra (and now he understands why his dad always mentioned that detail). This is Nazair. This is his mother.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” she says as he stares at her mask, “I wanted- to see you again, yes. But when I came back. I wanted to come home and tell you both that the war was over, and that I could stay, or take you both with me, or anything that meant I wouldn’t have to choose between protecting you and staying with you again.”

“Why did you go?” he needs to hear it from her, his dad has told him the whys of it, the reassurances of it, so many times, but he needs to hear it from her, the details that his dad would never tell him.

“Zarkon found the trail of the Red Lion,” she says simply, “And suddenly there was no more time. Keith, _you are from a world that was supposed to be the hiding place for the Blue Lion_. You have seen what lengths Zarkon will go to when he wants something, and I- _we_ have already lost family in this war. I wanted to watch you grow up, Keith. I wanted to teach you to fight and be there when you found your mask, or be there to comfort you, to tell you it was because of me if you never found one. But, more than anything else in the universe, I wanted you to have the _chance_ to grow up. I am not the sort to leave to others anything I can do myself, I _cannot_ sit idly by while others fight!”

And Keith wants to be mad at her. He really, _really_ wants to be angry that she chose duty over family, but… he’s the one who told Pidge that leaving Voltron to find her family would be selfish. He’s the one who said they should leave Allura with Galra rather than risk a rescue mission. He wants to be mad… but he thinks, in her position, he would make exactly the same choices she did. It hurts that she left, it hurts that she made the choices she did, but he cannot in good conscience say that her choices were wrong.

So instead of yelling, he reaches into the hip case of his paladin uniform. “I did find one,” he says, setting his mask on the table so that it’s facing her, “When I was twelve. It’s an-”

“Explorer,” she finishes before he can, leaning forward eagerly, her hands moving to sit politely in her lap as she looks, “One of the passion-based masks, similar to the Wanderer but more focused. Ah,” she colours slightly when she notices that his jaw has gone somewhat slack, “It is- as I told you, I have always planned to return if I could. Masks are so a part of Earth culture, I’ve done my best to keep at least the basic information fresh. I… do not recognize the meanings of all the lines on yours, though. Would you be willing to explain them to me?”

Part of him is still angry. Part of him is still hurt. But most of him has been searching his whole life, and it looks like at least some of the answers he’s going to find will be good. So he leans forward and begins to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was tricky to write – I skipped around in it a lot and kept leaving it and coming back. But since Krolia’s a thing in canon now, I felt I should deal with Nazair here, since I included her in Masks: a Different Life. I don’t know much about Krolia, but ever since I wrote Keith 2 I have known that Nazair didn’t leave Earth lightly, and would have stayed or taken her family with her if she thought it was for the best. I don’t see her choices as abandonment, any more than I see soldiers who are sent on long assignments in deep cover as abandoning their families.
> 
> I did nearly have Nazair be dead in this universe, though, since that was the most likely outcome to me. Masks is mostly an AU involving good outcomes (when not straight-up best case scenarios) however, so I wrote this instead.
> 
> In this, Nazair was on Earth because the Blades were also looking for the lions, to fight Zarkon with them, to keep him from getting them, to destroy them, whatever turned out to be the most feasible plan if they could. She met Keith’s dad (who I should give a name at some point if he doesn’t already have one) fairly early on and ended up traveling with him for several years, because she didn’t really know where the lion was anyway, might as well. In this universe Keith was around two or three when locating the lions became less pressing than fighting Zarkon and she was required to return to her duties as a pilot for the Blades of Marmora.
> 
> The fact that capture is always a risk and her family was located on a planet that potentially had one of the lions are the main reasons that she didn’t leave any form of communication device behind so she could keep in active contact with them, because it could have led to disaster. This upset Nazair more than having to leave.
> 
> I rather like the idea that while Keith doesn’t physically look a lot like Nazair, they share a lot of personality quirks, and that no one in their family is particularly great at doing something as silly as sitting around and ‘healing’ when there’s other stuff to be done.
> 
> Nazair is taller than Keith’s dad (I mean, she’s the same subspecies of Galra as Ulaz, and Ulaz is Tall), and Keith is short because height skips a generation in the Kogane family (at least in this universe).
> 
> Did a quick sketch, to get her face and markings down, if you would like to see how I picture her looking: [Nazair](http://greentrickster.tumblr.com/post/174754972161/nazair)


	23. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime after Success. Also, me, catch up on current seasons? Nah. (Basically don’t expect Sam to be in-character for this, I’ve never encountered him in canon, because I still haven’t watched past season 2)
> 
>  _Warning:_ brief suicidal ideations.

It’s been… it’s just been so long. He doesn’t know how long, exactly. Long enough to grow a beard. Long enough for the prisoner’s uniform to start hanging more loosely on his frame than it first did. Long enough to grow used to the darkness of the corridors and the idea that he was never going home.

He’d had hope at first. Not a lot, not when the beings, the Galra, were so far ahead of Earthly technology, but… surely someone would have noticed their disappearance. Their ship had systems for this sort of thing – automatic distress calls, monitoring systems, a few cameras to record what was happening outside the ship, both for safety purposes and to record further data. Surely _something_ had gotten through to the Garrison. Surely _someone_ cared that their mission to find proof of life beyond Earth had led to an actual alien abduction! They couldn’t- they _wouldn’t_ just leave the three of them out there alone without any attempt at rescue!

…would they?

And it seems they would. It seems they _did_. He doesn’t know how long it’s been beyond far too long to have heard nothing, not with how information tends to pass from one group of prisoners to the next whenever possible, not when it feels like the only times they ever have live guards is when those guards have gossip they want to talk about involving some new rescue attempt, some new escape attempt, some new failure that led only to death and more prisoners. He would know if that had happened. Just the way that he knows young Shirogane died in the gladiator pits.

Just the way he knows he son died in a failed uprising.

The first had hurt – his expedition had gotten a good man killed, a young man with a brilliant future – but the second had nearly killed him as well. And here, in the darkness, in the hopelessness, well… he doesn’t know how exactly the guards had known to force his mask away from him when he tried to snap it, but they had, and he had cursed them even as the horror of their touch on it registered. Up until that point he hadn’t wanted to think about how they gained this knowledge, why they had never tried to take it from him when they stripped away everything else, even his glasses, when prisoners are not allowed possessions of any sort, but after…

After he feels he owes it to his boys to think about it, to explore all the possibilities to their final conclusion. As a Sage it is easy for him to follow the threads of possibility and potential, to navigate the realms of ‘what if.’ Wisdom is his bailiwick, just as knowledge was his son’s…

Sometimes he feels the quiet tug that maybe the guards are lying. There is no reason to keep him alive if not as some sort of leverage over the other two – he has no skills that the Galra need nor knowledge that they want. There is no other reason to waste resources on his upkeep, no reason to throw him in with a group of other prisoners every now and then when he starts to wither from extended isolation. Logic, wisdom, intellect, experience, so many things indicate that they could be lying.

But the other prisoners… they have only ever given confirmation of what the guards say. No one escapes. No one in the ring survives long. Honestly, it makes him think a bit of casinos in a twisted way – the house always wins.

And the shards…

(It makes him sick to think of them still.)

He had recognized the feathered red lines on crisp white.

The silver star nestled amid vine-like green.

Masks slowly crumble after their owner’s death, lasting no more than a month after. And- If the masks had been whole, that would have been one thing. People have survived losing their masks or having them taken. They’ve even survived having them broken, though the shock to the system is excruciating and- well. There was a _reason_ he’d tried to snap his, but…

…the shards had been crumbling, the edges degrading into ashy dust, of the sort he hadn’t seen since his mother’s funeral. And the Galra _could not_ have known about this aspect of masks, not unless…

…it’s the one thing he spares himself, wondering how long they survived before-

No. No, he won’t think it, won’t wonder. This lie he will allow himself – it was swift. Whatever happened to his boys, it was swift. He doesn’t know why he’s alive, and death is not an option he is allowed, but dreams are always free. It’s actually a bit of a game that passes around the cells sometimes, when they’re put in groups and allowed to interact. It’s not… not common. Not loud, because, goodness gracious, it is _not_ encouraged by the guards, it is _violently_ not encouraged by the guards, but sometimes…

Sometimes…

“I’m going to tell you a lie.”

That’s how it begins. One being comes up to you and murmurs the words. It is the kindest way, the one that causes the least pain to the listeners, to the speakers. In a place where the house always wins, where the people have no hope, a lie is easier to swallow than a dream. They come up and tell you their lie, their not-allowed-to-be-a-dream, their never-truth.

“I killed a guard once.”

“The Empire can’t last forever.”

“I’ll escape any day now.”

Short, quiet, to the point. Not quite hopes, not quite dreams, but not truly lies. They tell it to you and then wander away to tell someone else, then you find someone to tell your lie to. It’s not… fun, per se. He’s not sure what it is. Necessary, perhaps. Not hope, but the next best thing.

(The ones who lose the will to lie rarely last long after.)

“My son survived,” that’s his lie, “He and our pilot are coming for me.”

It’s daringly long, and heart-breakingly false, but it’s the one he always says anyway. He says it until-

“That’s not a lie.”

He almost chokes on his own spit, staring at the being before him – masculine looking (for what that’s worth in space), light purple skin, white hair, and the air about him of someone who hasn’t been in the cells that long. The being stares back, slumped in the way everyone eventually does around here, but not- not as naturally, the curve of his shoulders less a bowing to the weight of confinement and more an artfully put on show. They flash the faintest of grins at him.

“That thing around your neck – I’ve seen ones like it before. Different colours, but similar smell. Looked like the same species as you, too. Two of ‘em’re missing their dad. One of them escaped from the gladiator ring somehow. They’re coming.”

“You’re supposed to tell your own lie.” The words tumble from numb lips while mind and heart do battle, “You’re supposed to tell your own lie, not build on someone else’s.”

“Nah, I’ve had enough of lying,” the being grins a bit wider, “I think I’ll stick with the truth. Here’s mine: I’m here on purpose.” He clicks the heel of his left foot on the floor for some reason when he says this (at a closer look, it appears to be a prosthetic of some sort).

“And why, pray tell, would you do that?” another prisoner asks, drawn in by the newcomer’s inadvisably loud voice.

“Because the Green and Yellow paladins know their way around Galra tech, and one of my previous run-ins with the Empire left me with a good place to hide a tracker.”

Talking longer is too dangerous, though, apparently even for the bold newcomer, and the being moves on with a falsely-broken spirit, leaving a trail of desperate confusion and not-quite-dreams, not-quite-hope in their wake, enough to bring a slight shine to some eyes and sparks of anger in others. Some long for what this newcomer offers, want to believe so desperately, but others have heard so many lies and felt so many hurts that they cannot bear the risk of one heartbreak more.

But none of these sparks come anything close to the explosion that rocks the cells and sends the doors flying open as the locking mechanisms deactivate, the prisoners crowding to the doorways, most so long in captivity that they can’t quite bring themselves to cross the threshold, especially at the sight of an armed stranger in the corridors.

The bold newcomer feels no such qualms, however, striding forward to clasp arms with the stranger. “Where ya been, Spark – you’re late!”

“Stow it, Rolo, we came as fast as we could.” The words are quietly friendly, but the sound carries against echoing metal. Not as well as what comes next however, spoken for all to hear. “Hey, people, I’ve got some big news: this ship’s going down and you’re all invited to help speed up the process while making your daring escape! I’ve got a ship waiting to get us off this wreck, so come on – LET’S START SOME FIRES ON OUR WAY OUT!”

…he hasn’t felt it since he was in college, but the sensation of a Rebel pulling you to their cause is one that you never forget, a heady rush of freedom and a call to _fight_ for it, and this time he doesn’t even try to resist. Sometimes a Rebel’s influence lasts, sometimes the ember flares and dies after a brief period, but here at least it is just enough to spark worn prisoners into a mad charge through the Galra vessel, destroying any that try to stop them, the madness, the danger of what they’ve just done only registering as they exit the strange Rebel’s ship into the grandeur of what he will later learn is the Castle of Lions. The shock of it – what they’ve done, the sudden realization that they’re actually _out of their cells, off the prison ship, still alive_ – leaves many of the prisoners reeling, some sitting abruptly, others bursting into tears or laughter, but Sam still has enough focus to jink through the crowd, towards the Rebel, Spark, because Spark has a mask, is a Rebel, a _human_ , the first he’s seen in so long, and maybe, maybe he knows-

“Dad?”

The brokenly hopeful voice stops him dead in his tracks, however, turning to see the impossible, Matt hasn’t been so small since- but, no, no, this isn’t his son, the face isn’t quite right, it’s _impossible_ , but it can only be- “Katie? I- What are-? _How_ -?”

“ _Dad_!”

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

Here is his truth:

His son survived; he and his sister and their pilot and their friends came for him. Sam needs look for no more comfort in lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah… I felt bad about leaving Sam potentially in Galra clutches or dead.
> 
> Note: masks don’t only dissolve when their own dies – they also disintegrate if the owner finds a new mask. You know, like Shiro and Matt both did. Dr. Holt didn’t consider that as being even remotely possible in this situation, though, which is part of why he believed that they were dead.
> 
> I… was not expecting Rolo to show up in this? I didn’t even know he’d joined the in-canon resistance movement until I went to do some fact-checking on him a couple seconds before adding him in. So I guess he and his crew get to be part of the Rebel Alliance in this universe. (shrugs) It should be noted, he didn’t go in looking for Sam, just prisoners in general to help bust out.
> 
> You just know Pidge checks every group of prisoners they encounter for her dad, and- yeah, it probably makes more sense for Sam to encounter Matt or Shiro first in this situation, but she’s been actively looking for him for so long, I wanted to let her find him, even in this small way.


	24. When I Get Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime after Further After, but before Keith 3 and Sam.

“When I get home, I’m getting a pe’a.”

The announcement comes out of the blue during a group post-mission collapse in one of the common rooms, and everyone turns at least vaguely to look at Hunk.

“Dude,” Lance raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said you were never doing that because it would hurt too much.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Hunk says flatly, “If I get home, I’m going straight to my uncle and telling him to sign me up with the next group he hears is getting theirs done because I’m a mighty space warrior and I’ve earned it.”

“What’s a pe’a?” Pidge asks the couch cushion her face is merging with, and Lance answers faster.

“A traditional Samoan tattoo, very fancy, lots of cultural significance, great excuse to wear booty shorts,” he offers up before Hunk can explain.

“…what?”

“They go from your waist to your knees.”

Keith actually sits up from where he’s squashed next to Shiro to give Hunk an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“Mm,” Hunk nods, “There’s a reason I wasn’t planning on getting one before. Now though? I fear no man. I fear no god. I fear no master tattooist with his combs of pointy ouch-ness. Anyway, Lance, what are you going to do if we get back someday?”

“Gonna let my entire extended family dogpile me and then just, lay there. For a couple hours. Just soak in the violent and overly-emotional love, you know?” he hums with pleasure at the thought, “And then will come the part where they say I’ve gotten too skinny while I was off in space and there will be so much food. Anyone else?”

“…contact my dad,” Keith volunteers after a moment, “Tell him I’m okay, what I’ve been doing, and then… I might actually come back out here. No, I will come back out here. And I’ll bring him with me, and we’ll explore together for awhile.”

“Are you sure about that?” Shiro looks down at his friend in concern, then hunches in minor embarrassment at the looks this gets him, “I mean- he’s a Wanderer. If you let him off-planet, he might never go back.”

Keith shrugs. “We’ll find a way to stay in contact – up until now we always have. And maybe, if we work together, we’ll find her…” he does not say who ‘she’ is, but then, it’s not really necessary. Though not as active about it, ever since they met the Blades, Pidge has not been the only paladin hoping to find a parent somewhere in space.

Speaking of whom, the green paladin pipes up next. “I’m gonna take over the tech industry. No mercy, just _bam_ , straight to the neck, I’ve been to space, I am Enlightened, resistance is futile. Hunk, you’re helping.”

“I am?” Hunk tilts his head back so he can see Pidge.

“Yes. Team Punk rides eternal.”

Hunk considers this for a moment, then shrugs, “Eh, I guess someone has to keep you from going evil. And I’m getting my pe’a first.”

“I resent the implications but also accept these terms. Shiro?”

“Crawl into my family’s cemetery plot and die.”

“ _Shiro_!” the protest comes in near-perfect unison, and their sometimes-overly-morbid leader laughs, blocking the pillow Lance throws at him and causing a squawk from Keith when he gets hit with it instead.

“Okay, okay, okay, I’m going to crawl into _bed_ and _sleep_ forever. You guys worry too much.”

“You tempt death too often for those jokes to still be funny,” Keith counters darkly, rolling off the couch to a new place on the floor, out of the threat zone should Shiro get anything else thrown at him.

“You know what? Hunk’s got the right idea,” Lance hops into the conversation again before it can degrade into a ‘yelling at Shiro to be more careful with himself’ fest (not that those don’t have their completely necessary place in palace life, but they’ve just come out of a long, arduous mission and the team needs relaxing more than Shiro needs another reminder), “We should all get tattoos when we get back.”

“I don’t think you’ve immersed yourself quite deep enough into Samoan society for anyone to be willing to give you a pe’a, Lance,” Hunk protests from the floor, “You were just reaching the point of being trusted with family recipes when we left, and my family doesn’t know any of the rest of you guys – no offense, there’s just a lot of rules and traditions around getting one,” he adds hastily, to a chorus of ‘don’t worry about it/no problem.’

Lance waves a hand dismissively, “No, not pe’a. Cool as they are, that is a challenge I am not up for. I mean more like – group tattoos or something. Like the lions! Man, we should get tattoos of our lions on the body parts we make when we form Voltron!”

“Pidge is too young to get a tattoo,” Shiro protests weakly from where he’s taken tactical advantage of Keith moving to take up the entire couch he’s on, somewhat side-swiped by the sudden turn the conversation has taken.

“We will obviously be lying about Pidge’s age,” Lance replies with utter confidence, accepting a fist bump of solidarity from the green paladin as he does so.

Keith looks up from where he’s been getting resettled with a considering expression. “Would Shiro’s be on his face, then, since he’s the head of Voltron?”

“I’m not getting a face tattoo,” Shiro puts in quickly, before anyone can get too attached to the idea and try to talk him into it.

“You should get it in the center of your chest,” Pidge gives an evil grin, “It would be amazing. Every time you take your shirt off – bam! Second face!”

“…while I don’t do it much at the moment, I do hope to get to the point where I can walk around shirtless again at some point, Pidge.”

“You could still do that!”

“What about on one of your pecs?” Hunk suggests instead, “Or on your shoulder, so it looked like Black was crouching on it?”

“…that second one sounds more- Lance, what are you doing?”

“Art!” Lance announces from where he has produced something that seems to function like a marker from _somewhere_ and rolled up his jeans to draw directly on his right leg. There is silence for a moment while the rest of the group observes his efforts.

“That’s not actually too bad,” Pidge comments, oozing over from her own chair so that she’s draped partially on the arm of Lance’s as well and pushing up her left sleeve, “Do mine next.”

“Eh, okay. Requests?”

“On my forearm, like an arm-blaster or something!”

 

The conversation completely devolves at this point from its original topic to a discussion of where who will each put their theoretical lion tattoo, and what it will look like. They’re still trying to figure out en masse how to make Keith’s right fist look like Red’s face when Coran calls them for supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From my cursory research into Samoan tattoos/pe’a, the most traditional ones go from waist to knees and cover most of the space in between, and a lot of ceremony and ritual goes into it, because this is Important. That’s the sort Hunk’s talking about getting. I was unable to really confirm if tattoos on other portions of the body are classically Samoan, or if it’s something that’s been adopted from other Polynesian islands. And, of course, if any of the above is wrong, please politely inform me and I will change it, I do not wish to perpetuate misinformation.
> 
> Comments always appreciated, no matter when the last chapter went up! :)


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